


All Hail

by ABitNotGood (EggsyUnwin), lordofthedreadfort



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Macbeth - Shakespeare
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, M/M, MacHamburrger, Murder for political gain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-23 10:56:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6114340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EggsyUnwin/pseuds/ABitNotGood, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordofthedreadfort/pseuds/lordofthedreadfort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“All hail Hamilton, who will be President hereafter.” </p><p>(We trust you understand the reference to another Scottish tragedy)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is our creative and personal apology for this story. (Spoilers for Macbeth, and not so many for actual history.)

"Your Excellency, I bring news from Yorktown." Lafayette halts at the opening of the tent, awaiting permission to enter, before striding through as Washington glances up at him.

"Lafayette, I've been awaiting your report. Sit down, would you have a drink?" Washington gestures towards a side table.

"No sir, I cannot possibly - the news I have is too pressing." Lafayette's face betrays the hint of a smile - he's never been good at suppressing emotion. "If you had been at Yorktown, you would have been blown away by the strength of Hamilton's leadership, truly impressive. Et cur non? An excellent choice for Major General, if you will allow me to say so, sir."

Washington offers Lafayette a slow half-smile in response, inclining his head in tacit agreement.

"This is heartening news, Lafayette, thank you for bringing it to me. Send Hamilton and Laurens immediately - I think we have a lot to discuss for the future. Now that I have become President, there is a lot to discuss."

Lafayette's face splits into an unsuppressed smile at the revelation, and he moves towards Washington before stopping himself just in time. "This is wonderful news, Your Excellency - Mr President," he corrects

"Perhaps," Washington allows, moving back behind his desk. "I can see you are eager to spread the news, so consider yourself dismissed. And be sure to tell Hamilton I have good news for him."

"Oui, Your Excellency, I will be back before you know I am gone."

 

* * *

 

“We won.”

Laurens’ voice doesn’t betray any of his exhaustion. He sounds elated.

“ _We won_.”

Something they have been fighting for everyday for over half a decade, something that only hours ago seemed inconceivable - but that was a white flag waved over the parapet, it was Laurens’ sure voice arranging Cornwallis’ surrender, it was General Washington letting his stoic exterior slip into a smile for them to realize _they had won_.

“It’s over,” Hamilton agrees. “We made it.”

“We did. Now I need a drink.”

“We need to get back to Washington first, Lafayette’s with him and Mulligan -”

Laurens taps the side of his nose. “Mulligan’s going to be indisposed for a while longer. He’ll be catching the stragglers.”

They walk on in companionable quiet in a world that feels like it will never be completely silent again. The moans of soldiers from both sides permeate the air. There’s nothing they can do - or at least, they tell themselves as much as they hurry on. They have to get to Washington, they have to get the official parts of this over so they can go and help put the people and the land of their newly claimed country back together.

The walk is short but leads them away from the main battle grounds where soldiers are still gathered, collecting themselves and their dead. The landscape seems more downtrodden, more ruined out here, as if the army raging across it sucked anything of use from it. Scorched earth policy enforced without intention.

Laurens is the first to see them. It isn’t until Hamilton hears them that he notices the three women.

The voices seem to start and end infinitely - on the hill above them, in the valley below them, in the wind pushing against their too thin jackets. The noise is not a word in any language Laurens knows, it's indecipherable; a plaintive, sorrowful wail both like a whisper and a shout in the darkening destroyed farmland.

“Eliza,” Alex breathes out, as if it’s his last breath.

The woman standing in the middle reaches out her hand to him, her dark hair stands out against pale skin. Her dress is still the same light blue, periwinkle. But the color is dulled as if the saturation had been sucked dry by the battle; the only alteration is the singed bottom of the dress, still smoking.

Her sisters' dresses in their own dulled hues are burning at the tips too, as if the fire is threatening to take over them and drag them back to wherever they have crossed over from, or threatening to drag Laurens and Hamilton in, burning them until nothing remains but cinders sitting on this now freed land.

Laurens’ hand snakes around Hamilton’s wrist. “They’re apparitions?”

“You see them too?”

“Of course, my dear boy. You’re not alone, Alexander. But maybe we’re both delusional.”

“Laurens - they’re right here, we can touch -”

Hamilton reaches out a hand to Eliza’s waiting one and Laurens physically pulls him back a few steps. When he looks up again, the women are closer than they were before , though their skirts as skill as if they have moved. Eliza’s drawn expression is offset by the sympathetic longing in her older sister’s.

Laurens always admired Angelica’s ability to convey more with a single look than a hundred words. The youngest sister takes Eliza’s hand in her own, and she starts to speak.

The small, young girl’s voice breaks through the wind and the world and cuts straight to both the men’s hearts.

“All hail Hamilton, Major General.”

“What is this?” Laurens hisses but feels foolish for interrupting.

Eliza moves her gaze slowly to meet his for a second before returning it to Hamilton. “All hail Hamilton, Treasury Secretary,” she says.

The words this time are a lie and yet Laurens sees Hamilton nod.

Angelica steps forwards, away from her sisters and is suddenly between Laurens and Hamilton, interjecting herself and forcing both men’s attention to be fully on her. Her hand ghosts towards Hamilton’s face and almost touches his cheek, stroking the space beside skin. She holds Hamilton’s gaze, watching a piece of ash settle on his cheek as she pulls her hand away, as if blown there by chance, or something more discriminate, as she says her piece:

“All hail Hamilton, who will be President hereafter.”

“What is this?” Hamilton asks. There’s an edge to his tone, call it bite or call it fear, but Laurens would answer quickly if it were directed at him either way.

The women all step back again - and for a minute that is all they are, the sisters’ features are gone and the faces are dark shapes.

“This is madness, Alexander we need to get to the General.”

“It’s madness,” Hamilton agrees but his eyes have returned to Eliza. Hamilton mouths the word, “Betsy?”, the wind carries any sound of it away but the woman still nods.

The woman - Eliza - nods at Hamilton, then she turns to Hamilton. Her sister speaks first again, looking younger by the second, and Laurens wishes that whatever apparition this was it would not use such a lovely, guiltless face.

“Lesser than Hamilton, but greater.”

Eliza’s fair mouth twists into a smile far crueler than anything she was capable of, and a foul sort of glee is interjected into her words. “Not so happy, yet once much happier.”

Angelica softens it, but barely looks at him as she admits, as if an afterthought, “Your children shall be rulers, though you shall not.”

“Angelica -” Hamilton says, stepping forwards, reaching to touch her arm.

“Alexander, no -”

Laurens is too late, but Eliza is not. Her eyes snap to Hamilton as he reaches for her sister.

“No,” Eliza says and the vision breaks.

Perhaps, Laurens thinks, this is the breaking point for Eliza: she could accept the memory of the fire singing against her skin but could not stomach the sight of Hamilton reaching for Angelica.

Everything fades and explodes and in a blink of an eye nothing has changed but nothing is the same and there is no one in front of them but Hamilton is gasping next to him.

“They’re gone.”

“Or they were never here,” Laurens counters. “Alexander…this was…”

“A fantasy? A shared fantasy, but I’m not blind to the fantastical nature of weird spirits and prophecies from the sisters -”

If it were anyone else, Laurens would say his voice broke. But it is Hamilton, so he gives him the dignity of considering it a sudden cough.

“We’re delusional from the heat, fatigued from the fighting, and we let this fantasy sneak up on us. I see that, my dear Laurens.”

“Did you hear what I heard?”

“We both heard the same lies, or different ones. It doesn’t matter. The land doesn’t grow into women and speak prophecies. The dead don’t rise. Please let’s - not speak of this again.”

Laurens nods, slowly, shaken, willing to suppress the memories if they will allow themselves to be suppressed. “It’ll be as if it never happened.”

“We were walking and lost track of time, nothing more.”

“ _Encore_?” asks a lightly agitated voice and Lafayette is springing towards them, larger than life, and bursting forwards as if he had just woken up and not lead a command for the entirety of Yorktown. “ _Mes amis_ there will be plenty of time for such excursions once we are secured in your new nation.”

“ _Our_ new nation,” Hamilton corrects, but he is grinning and Lafayette is smiling back and striding towards them. He kisses Hamilton on both cheeks, and then Laurens.

“The General sends for his boys, and I come to collect you.”

“Then let’s not keep His Excellency waiting any longer.”

Hamilton straightens up but Lafayette makes no move to leave and his lip quirks up slightly at the side. “Ah, _mais_ I have some news for you Major General Hamilton, sir, before we depart.”

Laurens tries not to flinch at the words from the weird sisters repeated so soon afterwards, reminding himself that it could not have happened.

“As you will, my dear Lafayette. What’s important enough to delay us from meeting with the General?”

“Soon to be President,” Lafayette says.

Hamilton’s eyes widen. “It’s decided. So soon?”

“The country needs stability. Who else is better suited to provide it? And that is not all, for he cannot secure it alone. The President is required to assemble a cabinet, and wishes for me to ask you, in his name, if you will do your country the honor of being one of its Secretaries.”

Laurens feels a chill colder than this Virginian October should offer slide inside him. He wants to ask but fears the answer is already settled by the glint in Hamilton’s dark eyes.

“Treasury?” Hamilton asks, the light in his eyes looking now like nothing more than anticipation.

“ _Mais bien sûr_ ,” Lafayette leans in and kisses Hamilton once again, this time on the same cheek that Angelica spirited over. “Come, we must tell the General your excitement at the new role.”

Lafayette swings an arm around the smaller man and reaches out to take Laurens’ hand with his free one, leading them back in the direction of the real world of solid people and unstable decisions. Absentmindedly, Lafayette plucks a piece of ash from the side of Alex’s hair and throws it away where it disappears before touching the ground.

 

* * *

 

Hamilton's letter accompanies the first, creeping rays of dawn across the sky.

Burr is reliably awake - with Hamilton off at war, with both his Theodosias dead and gone before he had quite registered the shock of the loss, the night time never feels quite as comforting as it once had. Now, as he stares down at the letter, unsure as to whether he wants to open it or not, it seems to singe his fingertips. Communication from Hamilton is always erratic; sometimes long, lengthy paragraphs about the state of the war and the minor but frequent disagreements he has had with the rest of Washington's staff, other times short terse sentences smudged so hurriedly with ink Burr can barely decipher a line - or could not have, if he hadn't been so well acquainted with Hamilton's handwriting.

Still. He has a strange premonition, only seconds before he finally relents and edges the envelope open with a pocket knife, that there is something important in the letter, something simmering beneath his fingers with urgency. Perhaps it's just wistful thinking. He opens it anyway.

 

_Aaron Burr, sir,_

_The siege at Yorktown is over - John Laurens negotiated the surrender with one of their men, and we are to be declared independent from England. That's not the most important news I have, however, as I have just discovered I am to be made His Excellency's Secretary of the Treasury upon his inauguration. Unsurprising, perhaps, given my contribution to the cause and my close professional relationship with the General, but, as I am sure you can appreciate, a telling advancement in my career._

_I have something to tell you, however, which has been plaguing my mind ever since, well - even now, as I write it to you, it seems too ridiculous to possibly be true. Please suspend your disbelief for a moment, if you can grant me that courtesy, at least until you have read what I am about to say._

_Before I received the information that I was to be made Secretary of the Treasury, John and I were traveling to the General and we encountered three women, one who looked just like my Betsey. I understand it sounds strange already, but bear with me. The three women stalled us in the middle of our traveling and imparted what seemed to be prophecies - they said I was to be Major General, which of course I already am; they also foretold my promotion to Treasury Secretary, which I discovered only hours after my meeting with them; finally, they told me I was to be President one day._

_When I endeavored to question them further, they vanished, leaving John and I alone. I'm imparting this knowledge to you with the assurance that we can both celebrate the successes promised to us in the future, as you are my partner in everything, but particularly my partner in greatness. Keep this letter a secret, and I will see you soon._

_Yr obedient servant, (mon râleur préférée)_

_\- Hamilton_

 

The letter and its contents takes a while to register in Burr's mind; it's not until after he has slowly circled the courtyard twice that the meaning behind Hamilton's surprising declaration begins to sink in. Keep this letter a secret, Hamilton had warned him, and so Burr keeps the contents to himself, despite the fact he feels an uncharacteristic need to speak of his new knowledge to someone.

Once, he had been able to speak to his wife, for she had understood him with an impressive quickness, before the words had even left his mouth. Theodosia Jr had been just like her mother in so many ways, with a soulful, too-old edge to her gaze and a solemn tilt to her mouth. His daughter had sat easily whilst he spoke to her in a way he could never speak to anyone again, with an easy naturalness that had died the day she had. And now he is here, wandering around the scattered gravestones with a weary regularity, retracing the path he has taken every day for the past month.

Theodosia Jr's grave has only just been erected a few weeks before. It's cold, the dirt mound damp and still fresh as he sits beside it, Hamilton's letter still crumpled tightly in one fist. He should burn it, he thinks absently, but the thought lingers for only a brief moment. Instead he sits, and he stares at the small, slate headstone for a while, reading the familiar inscription already permanently etched into his mind, feeling something unfathomable tighten in his chest.

"Good morning, Theo," Burr says finally, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the yard. He's never been very good at speaking like this, never quite knows how to start these heavy, one-sided conversations, but somehow it seems easier today than it usually does. Today, he has something to distract himself from his gaping grief; the first stirrings of hope.

He glances around, noting the empty stretch of landscape with an impassive gaze before returning back to his daughter's grave, his breath sticking painfully in his chest for a second before he works past it. "I had a letter from Hamilton today. The war's over. And he's going to be President someday." It seems strange to voice the prophetic vision out loud, and yet as soon as it is sounded, his cautious optimism threatens to surge.

"I-" He hesitates, unsure about how to voice his next, tentative concern, for speaking to Theodosia is almost a practice run for when Hamilton finally returns home and he wants to get it right, he has to get it right. "I'm just worried, I suppose. He wants to be President, I can sense it, and yet - I don't think he has what it takes to truly grasp the first opportunity that comes. Whatever he might say, he cares for Washington. And he's never been very good at stifling his emotions."

He unfolds the letter one more, sweeping his gaze over Hamilton's familiar handwriting, as if to reassure himself everything is still as he remembers it, before folding it carefully once more.

"He's not strong enough to take what he wants, not without persuading. But if both witchcraft and destiny has marked him out as President, what else can we do but make it happen? Things seem to happen for him easily, without him even trying, without him even noticing. This is the same. This could be the same." He exhales slowly, his breath misting before him, as weak sunlight cracks down the middle of Theodosia's gravestone.

It seems so long since he has wanted anything with more than a half-hearted desire, but the fervency with which he considers the notion of Hamilton as President is instinctive. By the time he bids goodbye to Theodosia for another day, running the palm of his hand over the sloping top of her headstone, a plan is formulating in his head.

"Mr Aaron, sir!" Philip's young voice rings out across the courtyard, and the initial irritation that always surges when Burr is reminded of Hamilton's own, perfectly alive child is swiftly softened by the sight of the young boy racing across the stone steps. Philip just about manages to stall in time before he barrels into Burr's chest, breathing heavily.

"What can I do for you, Philip?" Burr asks pleasantly, "Take a breath before you keel over." Philip nods, before launching into a quick-fire tirade strangely reminiscent of his father.

"General Washington's coming tonight. To dinner. There was another letter from Paps, whilst you were out - here." The letter is thrust hurriedly into Burr's hands, and it takes a few seconds to smooth out the crumpled letter, Hamilton's handwriting even blotchier with ink.

"This is - late notice," Burr concedes finally, unsure as to why he is surprised. Nothing with Hamilton ever seems to be steady - every plan lurches into being and changes last minute, and of course Washington was invited for an impromptu dinner out of nowhere, leaving Burr to scramble together arrangements.

Then, suddenly, the plan that had been unconsciously forming in the back of Burr's mind seems to loom with renewed urgency.

"Thank you, Philip," he says quickly, patting Hamilton's son on the shoulder with surprising affection, smiling down at the young boy. "This is wonderful news." He thinks of Washington, who had dismissed him from the war efforts and sent him home like a skulking, naughty puppy without anything close to gratitude for Burr's years of service, and feels white-hot anger flare up momentarily, before it is quashed once again. He has a plan, but there is no need to muddy the preparations with unnecessary emotion.

As he stills in the courtyard, lost in his thoughts, Burr doesn't notice Philip leaving his side until he glances up at the mouth of the yard and spots Hamilton descending from horseback, Philip racing to meet him. As the two embrace, Hamilton glances up and their eyes connect from across the yard - and in that short, quiet moment, Burr wonders if they are thinking of the same thing. They must be. What else could there be to think of?

"Congratulations Treasury Secretary," Burr affords with a slow incline of his head, offering Hamilton a private smile. Hamilton returns it with surprising intensity, although it lasts for only a second before his smile falters and Burr's, too, fades: a mirror image.

"It's good to see you," Hamilton says, releasing Philip to stride across the yard towards Burr. The closer he gets, the more Burr is able to scrutinize Hamilton's expression - the way his brows are knitted together, the smudge of faded dirt swiped across his right cheek, and the glassy exhaustion in his eyes. There's no time like the present, Burr thinks, watching Philip retreat back into the house, and closes the gap between them.

"When does Washington arrive?" Hamilton looks faintly startled by the immediacy of the question, but answers just as quickly,

"Tomorrow. He's only staying one night. I'm sorry for the late no-"

"He won't leave," Burr asserts, his voice steady. "He can't leave. You are to be President - together we will make it so. Compose yourself," he adds with a flicker of annoyance as Hamilton visibly pales at his suggestion, reaching out to run the pad of his thumb in a soothing line against the slope of Hamilton's shoulder. The other man doesn't pull back, barely flinches; Burr takes this as a good sign. "Keep a straight face, so no-one will know what you are thinking. Greet Washington as you always would, and leave the preparations to me. This night will change our lives."

"Let's talk about this later," Hamilton returns, a pleading edge to his voice. But he reaches out to pluck a loose thread idly from Burr's coat, his fingers lingering against the soft material, and it seems like a concession of sorts.

"Fine," Burr allows in return, "Come, don't look so pensive. We've won. And you are to be Treasury Secretary. That's worthy of celebration."

Hamilton nods, a decisive tilt to the gesture, and they walk to the house together.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Burr persuades Hamilton to his point of view, a dinner party occurs, and Philip sleeps through all the "fun".

 

"You're insane."

The assertion is confident, as is everything coming out of Hamilton's mouth. Burr can't say he's surprised by the vehemence that accompanies Hamilton's words, nor the manic glint in his eyes as he paces furiously around the room, shoes clattering against the polished boards of the wooden floor. Instead, he eases himself into the armchair and waits, as always, for Hamilton's frenetic speed to slow.

"You can't possibly be-" Hamilton starts again, face contorting with anguish as he rounds on Burr once more. "He'll be a guest. Under our roof. He's the _President_ now. Even before that, he was always good to us-"

"Good to you," Burr amends dutifully, raising an eyebrow up at Hamilton.

"Is that what this is?" Of course Hamilton latches onto Burr's offhand remark, as he always does - the slightest chip and Hamilton is reliably there ready to prise the cracks wide open with his fingers. "That's ridiculous - I didn't realise you were so petty."

"It's not about that at all," Burr retorts, although there is no heat to his words. There usually is with Hamilton, an edge of constantly simmering emotion that he keeps well under wraps but has to consciously think about doing so. But now this has gone beyond him and Hamilton, their continually sparking connection that seems to alight with every momentary friction: this is something greater than the both of them separately. This is potential.

"Then what is it about?" Hamilton demands hotly, his brows knitting together in a mocking display of confusion. "I can't just - the prophecy said I would become President, it didn't mention anything about me _murdering the Pres-_ "

"Keep your voice down," Burr says, irritation finally edging his tone as he stands. He and Hamilton stand at a height, and as his gaze catches against the weighty glint of Hamilton's own impenetrable stare, Burr suddenly feels very impatient. "You have absolutely no discretion at all, do you? If we're going to do this, we need to do it quietly and subtly."

"We're not doing this," Hamilton says with a strained laugh, shaking his head in a harried manner as if attempting to remove water from his ears. "Aren't you listening to me? I won't do it."

This conversation isn't panning out the way Burr had anticipated, although on some deeper level he had to have known Hamilton wouldn't give in immediately, even if it was just on principle alone. But he knows if he just suggests it in the right manner, phrases it in the right way, Hamilton will see that the benefits outweigh the very temporary costs - and he had always seen Hamilton as the type of person to guide his own destiny so the other man's reluctance seems almost foreign to Burr.

"I would do it, if our roles were reversed," he says softly, finally, into the renewed silence of the room that had followed Hamilton's vehement declaration. "If you asked."

His confession feels raw and ugly, hanging heavy in the space between them. A flicker of some unfathomable emotion distorts Hamilton's features.

"Burr," he starts, his voice hoarse as if it is rooted deep in his chest. Burr turns away, feeling suddenly and inexplicably fed up of the entire mess. He's firmly accepted that he's not Hamilton's priority, and that's fine, he supposes - Hamilton still has Philip to look after, he has Laurens and Lafayette and his other friends, the respect of the President. Burr had Theodosia and his daughter, once upon a time, but now he only has Hamilton and even that feels tenuous.

"This isn't just about _you,"_ Burr says, turning around to face Hamilton, only to realise Hamilton had in turn neared him. Up close, Burr can note every line in Hamilton's face, the way the lamplight is caught just behind the disc of his pupil, the slope of his nose. "Think about something beyond your own ego and morals for a second - think of Philip. You should do whatever it takes to secure a happy future for your child."

"That's unfair," Hamilton replies immediately, his throat sounding constricted. Burr continues on, regardless, the words easing the tightness in his chest as he eliminates the final remaining space between the two of them, meeting Hamilton's level gaze before cupping him boldly through the material of his trousers. Hamilton physically stills.

"I never took you for the type to hesitate," Burr continues smoothly, unbuttoning Hamilton's breeches with deft fingers. "It's not a pleasant task, I'll grant you, but it's necessary. Don't you see?"

"They said I'd be President," Hamilton says, his words an uncharacteristic whisper. "I just need to wait for it to happen-"

"Do you know that?" Burr counters with a firmness to his voice he only half believes in. Assassinating Washington is the only way for them to achieve a shared sort of greatness, and he wants it for Hamilton more keenly than he has wanted anything for a long while. "You've never waited for anything in your life, why would you risk your destiny on idle suggestion?"

He pulls Hamilton's breeches down in one fluid movement to his knees as Hamilton obligingly pulls his long shirt over his head; an unspoken concession.

"I want to do this for you," Hamilton says finally, his voice wavering as Burr runs the pad of his thumb down Hamilton's length, circling the tip. "I do, I just - he's been good to me, all these years, and what if I fail? That's it for both of us."

"Screw your courage to the sticking place," Burr orders as he sinks to his knees in front of Hamilton, the wooden floorboards of Hamilton's bedroom cool against his knees. "I will sweep all of the obstacles out of your way. Don't concern yourself with worries about that." He ducks his head, swirls his tongue around the tip of Hamilton's cock, pleased with Hamilton's involuntary shudder in response.

He presses the flat of his tongue against Hamilton's cock before withdrawing to glance up at the other man. "All you need to do is carry out the act."

Burr holds Hamilton's gaze for a brief moment before purposely averting his eyes, wrapping his fingers around the base of Hamilton's cock and taking him fully in his mouth. Hamilton emits a strangled breath as Burr hollows his cheeks and dips his head in a now familiar rhythm.

"I appreciate the welcome - like a true lady of the house," Hamilton comments flippantly, as if attempting to brush away the tension from before, but the breathless edge to his voice belies the assertive confidence. Burr angles his head again, his tongue dragging against Hamilton's length with a rocking rhythm, arousal pooling low in his stomach as he hears Hamilton's breath audibly hitch, Hamilton's fingers coming to rest on the nape of Burr's neck, willing him on.

So he withdraws, sharply.

"You'll do it?" he asks, his voice ragged as he wipes his wet mouth with the back of his hand, still staring up at Hamilton, who is slack-jawed and glassy-eyed in his arousal.

"Burr, _please-_ " Hamilton manages, looking embarrassed by his own desperation but announcing it nonetheless, as if to correct Burr's action. "I will, I'll do it, for us-" That's all Burr needs, the words somehow holding a reverence despite the harried manner in which Hamilton had imparted them.

He takes Hamilton between his lips again, tasting the precum on the tip already, and dips his head in motion once more. Hamilton's breath stutters as he stiffens underneath Burr's touch, the drag of his tongue, the dip of his head -

Burr can feel Hamilton's short fingernails dig into the back of his head, hips bucking against Burr's mouth as he comes, no words outside of a ragged, exhaled " _-fuck"_ splintering the hush that has descended on the room. Hamilton backs away to sit on the bed, looking boneless, like a puppet whose strings have been promptly severed, and Burr stares for a while as he swallows the load.

Hamilton's bedroom is the only room in which they are _together_ in every sense of the word. It feels like sacrilege to bring Hamilton to the room which Theodosia had once called her own, where Theodosia had spent her last few days, as if defiling a holy shrine. But here in Hamilton's room, there's an odd sense of peace that settles between them in the hazy wake of Hamilton's orgasm.

Hamilton's taste still lingers in the corners of Burr's mouth as he staggers to his feet, angling his head down to press a tentative, clumsy kiss to the sharp line of Hamilton's jaw before going to withdraw. But Hamilton's hand stills him, cool against Burr's suddenly heated skin, and the touch sends electricity swan-diving down his spine.

"You'll deal with everything?" The question is uncertain, boyish almost, but Hamilton's cheeks are still flushed and his eyes are bright in the half-light of the room.

"I will," Burr agrees softly, "Leave it to me."

 

* * *

 

“Morning.”

Hamilton jumps at the sound and turns to see Laurens sat at the kitchen table

“I didn’t know you’d get here so early.”

“The sun will be going down soon. I thought it best I rode ahead of the rest of the party,” Laurens shrugs then looks a little uncomfortable. “Washington’s bringing some other members of the new cabinet.”

“Oh?”

“He thought it’d be best for you all to get _friendly_.” Laurens says the word “friendly” like another person would say murder and Hamilton quickly loses his appetite. “I know Jefferson and Madison from my youth, vaguely,” Laurens continues. “You shouldn’t underestimate either of them, particularly not Madison. May not seem like much, but he’s a real dick underneath.”

“Thanks for the words of advice. I think I can handle a couple of Virginians.”

Laurens looks up at him – and it’s not a doubting look, but there’s obviously something on his mind and Hamilton’s hopes of rushing through and preparing things for the dinner tonight is lost.

“Alexander—”

“Laurens, I’m fine.”

“You haven’t seemed the same since the prophecies. No – don’t leave, we need to talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk—”

“ _Please_ , I’m trying to do this right. It was Eliza out there, I saw it as well as you, and we heard what they said, and they predicted you getting the Treasury – but it was just a cruel trick. You have to realize this _can’t_ be anything but lies. You need to talk to someone about this.”

“I already have someone to talk to.”

Those words gave Laurens pause for the first time since the conversation started.

“If you’re done with this pseudo-amicable inquisition, then could you excuse me? I have a dinner to prepare for the President and his men.”

Laurens stands up, looking like he’s about to do something they will both regret. Hamilton steps backwards and Laurens’ face falls a little.

“I’ll go and check on Philip if you like, he’s probably bored of all the preparations.”

“That would be…wonderful actually. Burr said he was in the parlor when he cleaned it earlier.”

“You’ve got Aaron Burr doing your housework for you? Maybe the witches aren’t the only miracle.”

“Who else would do it? I had him free his slaves as a condition of moving in. And he…likes the distraction. Since Theodosia.”

Hamilton changes the topic quickly, and hopes Laurens doesn’t push it. Even he doesn’t know whether he’s referring to Burr’s wife or daughter but Laurens bows his head sympathetically all the same.

“Of course. It must be nice to have you and Philip around.”

Hamilton looks away. “I can relate in part. And Philip keeps us lively. But I haven’t seen him all day and I wager he’d love a distraction from housework from his Uncle John.”

“Philip strikes me as the sort of kid who can never have too many distractions.” As light as Laurens’ words are, his expression is still fraught.

Hamilton wishes he would just say whatever it is that’s worrying the edges of his countenance, but equally perhaps it is better Laurens doesn’t ask, and then Hamilton won’t have to lie to him.

Hamilton’s never liked lying. It doesn’t come easy to him even now; he’s evasive and distracts people and sometimes simply does not answer but lying is a different matter entirely. Somehow, also, Hamilton feels Laurens would know if he were to try and deceive him. Better they both stay silent, increases the plausible deniability. Hamilton nods and backs out of the room with a cursory “If that’s all,” before Laurens can interject.

He walks away knowing he’s succeeded but feeling a hundred times worse. For the first time since he agreed to Burr’s proposition – for that is the nicest word for the deed – his stomach feels genuinely sick. The guests will be here soon though, and he has a murder to arrange.

Burr and he have separate rooms for propriety’s sake when visitors come, and with such distinguished guests deeming to visit them it’s important to uphold the illusion now more than ever.

The house was originally Burr and Theodosia’s so the largest rooms are his and the second largest suite is Ham’s. Whenever they meet it is in Hamilton’s room and he has never questioned it, allowing Burr to keep the safe space that once occupied something very different to him. It’s like a flower pressed between the pages of a book, but every time he opens the pages to check it’s still there it loses some of its original shape. If Burr’s taken to spending more nights in Hamilton’s suite than his own, then Hamilton’s not going to be the one to mention it. He’s also not going to complain.

Perhaps the reasons for that are not completely confined to respecting memory. If they were prioritizing respecting memory then they would never have gotten into this arrangement.

But too late is the cry – there’ll be time to judge themselves tomorrow and tomorrow. For now, Hamilton needs to set up his rooms for the Vice President and his wife, make sure there are no remnants of last night, and check Burr’s suite is presentable enough for the President.

George Washington has done a lot for Hamilton, the least he can do in return is make sure he spends his last night under clean sheets.

 

* * *

 

“And a toast to our generous guests, Secretary Hamilton and Mr Burr!”

“The Lady of the house!” Laurens shouts.

Hamilton groans and feels Burr tense next to him. He squeezes Burr’s leg apologetically under the table.

Washington continues his toast after a stern look that effectively quiets Laurens.

“May we all be happy and satisfied in our own homes, returning to our families now this hard-won war is over. And may we all reap the rewards of our new nation, and to our new roles within it, Alexander, Mr Jefferson,” Washington inclined his glass to them in turn, smiling warmly at Hamilton. “To freedom.”

Everyone raises their glasses and echoes, “To freedom,” as if it were something universal and they were all equally entitled to it. What a thought. Hamilton downs his champagne a little bitterly, enjoying the buzz from rushing it.

“Anyone for tea in the parlor?” Burr asks.

“It’s a shame it’s past Philip’s bedtime, he could’ve played something for us,” Hamilton frowns. Burr looks at him indulgently and smiles. Hamilton feels his chest, heavy with the knowledge of what he’s about to attempt, lighten a little at the gesture. But then again, Burr smiles for everyone.

“Time to retire for the night, for me, I’m afraid,” says John Adams, newly declared -by whom, Hamilton was not sure - Vice President. “Hard work being the Vice President. Although nothing on the Presidency I’m _sure._ ” The man is insouciant and Hamilton wishes they could just kill him instead. Mrs Adams smiles benevolently, making up slightly for her husband, and pulls her hand from her husband’s a little firmly.

“I think I will take tea first,” Abigail Adams says. Martha Washington rises and leads her and Jefferson to the adjoining room.

Burr looks at Hamilton once, firmly, and Hamilton gets the distinct impression he’s done something wrong.

Oh. Right.

“Mr President,” he cuts Washington off as they stand up to retire to their different rooms, watching Laurens and Madison—a short sturdy sickly man who he only looked twice at due to Laurens’ warning—follow the other group to the parlour before continuing. “I have something I wanted to run by you quickly?”

“By all means, my boy,” Washington says.

In the background Hamilton hears Burr suggesting, “Perhaps a walk around the grounds would clear your head before sleep, Mr Vice President?”

Hamilton can take a hint. He lowers his voice so no one can hear and moves half a step closer. “It’s not particularly for the ears of others, sir. Could we perhaps go to my room upstairs? It won’t be long.”

If he sense anything odd in the request Washington doesn’t show it, simply nodding and following Hamilton from the now empty room.

“Are you quite alright, Alex?” Washington asks once Hamilton’s closed the door on his suite. The Adams’ luggage is on the floor, brought up by Burr and Laurens earlier whilst he greeted the guests. Hamilton hasn’t quite got used to playing hostess yet but knows he does it with more ease than _Lady_ Burr.

“Yes, _sir_. I just wanted to talk to you alone.”

“You have my full attention. Is it about the position? Your knowledge of financial systems is unparalleled and you’ve been so invaluable I fear letting you go even know. I thought the Treasury would suit you, son.”

Hamilton decides not to quibble over the endearment, and lets Washington say it one last time. Burr has obviously been in the room: Hamilton’s silver dagger is out on his desk. It was gifted to him when he gained a command at Yorktown by the man it will be used against. How fitting in a way, destined perhaps; kismet. He goes over to his desk and lights a candle. It casts a shadow over the dagger, as if trying to cover the thing of death to allow life to continue for a brief while longer.

But if he is to do this, it would be best to do it quick, before he can let nerves sap his strength.

“I’m very grateful for the Treasury position, sir,” he doesn’t turn back around, knows that looking at the other man whilst doing this will not help him. “I’m grateful for everything.”

“Alexander, I there’s something you want to tell me, it would be best that we spoke freely.”

“It’s hard to articulate, sir.”

“Is it Burr?”

“Burr, sir?”

“He seemed odd at dinner. The situation you two have cultivated is working for you?”

“Yes, sir. We both offer each solace. Since little Theo it’s been – hard.”

“You certainly have an inimitable relationship.”

Hamilton nods. He imagines he can feel Washington tracking the movement, watching him carefully. Washington commands a room when he walks into it, and even standing on the edge of Hamilton’s, he’s dominating the space, all the air is being drawn towards him as he breathes in before speaking.

“I think Burr is planning to kill me tonight.”

Hamilton snaps around. Washington’s lip is half turned up as if he finds his own words humorous, as if the thought that someone like Burr could hurt him is laughable, as if Burr is a joke. For the first time, Hamilton finds a reason why he might want to hurt this man. Washington’s face becomes more serious though.

“Burr is a jealous man and the dividing up of riches in terms of jobs after our victory didn’t favor him. I was worried about sending you back here knowing it would be just the two of you,”

“Philip is here as well,” Hamilton hears himself say the empty statement oddly muffled as if he’s underwater. “And Laurens usually.”

“I sent Laurens on ahead actually. I think he sensed my worry.”

“ _Sir_.”

“Please, Alexander, listen,” Washington steps forwards, reaching out his large hand reassuringly. Hamilton flinches at the proximity and Washington uselessly drops his hand to his side. “We might not have much time. Burr is an intelligent man. I’ve already warned Martha I have suspicions—”

“You did what?”

This time his voice is louder and Washington looks a little shocked. If Martha suspects Burr then there’s nothing Hamilton can do. He never wanted the wonderful woman to be brought into this. Hamilton had been trying to not think what the loss of her husband would do to her, to just be grateful that she would be safe. Suddenly, it seemed so clear that she was always going to be collateral.

“I only told her to be wary of him. If you know more you need to tell me, for Martha’s sake, for _your_ sake. I’m worried what he might do to you. We are all positioned under one roof so perfectly for him. Burr would hardly need to task himself to destroy the four most important people in Government. He’s outside right now and could get far away. All it would take is a fire at the right time, and we’d have a repeat of the British with the Schuyler mansion on our hands.”

Hamilton recoiled and Washington’s mouth thinned into a tight line. “I’m sorry, son, I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t say that,” Hamilton snaps. He shouldn’t have gotten angry, he knows that, he’s pushed himself to a decision now. If he stays silent Washington will be able to tell his resentment, the plan will unravel. If he speaks to distract though, Washington will surely grasp the plan anyway and whatever favor he’s won with his General will run out. He’s never going to beat Washington in a fair fight. He’s a spring pulled taut and he’s fraying at both edges. One side has to snap, and he knows which one. “You’re right, sir,” he says, firmly, finally. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. Burr wants us dead.”

Washington squeezes Hamilton’s shoulder. And there is the soldier, the venerated General has returned in his steeled gaze. His hand nearly covers Hamilton’s whole shoulder, but it feels reassuring.

“I’m going to get Martha, come with me.”

Washington lets go and turns around, turning his back on Hamilton and heading for the door.

Hamilton’s smaller size meant he’d learned early how to be quicker than everyone else, to react and slip in and out of fights before the bigger man could know what hit him.

He reaches behind him and grabs the dagger by the handle.

“Sir,” he says but Washington doesn’t stop, already reaching for the door handle. Hamilton scrambles behind him and says: “Father.”

Washington freezes.

And Hamilton slides the dagger between Washington’s ribs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They've - well, Hamilton and Laurens - been calling John Adams a dick since '76 and he hasn't done anything new since. Until now when he is a little too susceptible to suggestion. Also, Burr goes on a Martha Washington hunt and gets a surprise.

Hamilton’s hand is steady as he opens the door to his and Burr’s shared room for the night. It’s inside that he’s shaking where his blood is pounding through his body as if trying to break out and spill across the floor to recreate the tableau from his own bedroom.

It takes him a few seconds to realize Burr is not there yet and a sense of intense frustration and anti-climax falls over him. When it came to the actual action of the deed, it wasn’t that hard to pull off.  

He had built it up in his mind that the murder itself would be the hardest point - not thinking past the moment when President Washington’s breath would stop and his steady, piercing eyes would still. Any two cent bandit can commit a murder but it takes a genius to get away with assassinating the President.

Fortunately, they’ve got two of them. Which means Hamilton needs to uphold his end and not incriminate himself: so, the blood. He hurries to the basin and washes his hands trying to imagine it as mud. He is not long out of wartime, so that the luxury of running water easily at hand still relaxes him. This is an unknown luxury, something they had at King’s College and at the Mulligans’ house when he stayed with them but not back on Nevis. He washes the blood off efficiently and without rush; if water is burning on the edge of his eyes it is only from his intense concentration.

Now is not the time for regrets. The deed is done. The man who gave Hamilton the biggest shot he’s ever had and trusted him more than he ever deserved is dead at his own hand. There’s no going back from that.

Someone tries the door and Hamilton feels his heartbeat quicken before Burr steps in, looking exhausted, with mud on his dress shoes.

“Adams will be on his way,” Burr says shortly. “You should cut him off before he gets to the room. Find the body with him, accuse him, set him up.” Burr turns to him when he doesn’t answer and raises his eyebrows, perhaps noticing Hamilton’s dripping wet hands or something of his frantic thoughts. Hamilton wipes his face self-consciously. “It is done, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Hamilton says curtly.

“Well done,” Burr steps forwards and frames Hamilton’s face with his hands, leaning in and kissing him lightly, more a brush of lips than anything else. A promise of a kiss. “I knew you could do it.”

Hamilton wants to take the praise and sink into Burr but knows the longer he delays it the worse it could be, so he admits, “Martha knows,” and watches Burr’s frown deepen. Burr drops his hands from Hamilton’s face but doesn’t back away.

“Did she _see_?” he asks, obvious annoyance bubbling.

“No, I’m not incompetent. Washington already suspected something—well, he suspected you,” Burr flinches and Hamilton remembers Burr’s words that it had to be Hamilton to commit the deed as he wouldn’t be judged, that Burr needed the alibi more. “He told her beforehand. If he doesn’t come back to bed and Martha can’t find either of us…”

 “I’ll deal with Martha Washington.” Hamilton wants to protest because Martha was never part of the plan but Burr’s face is calm and still a little disappointed as he brushes Hamilton’s hair out of his face, fallen loose from his customary ribbon. “I told you I would deal with everything else, all you have to think about is Adams. I am very sorry that Mrs Washington had to get involved in this, but perhaps it is for the best. She would surely stop at nothing to uncover what happened to her husband. And I wouldn’t want you to have to live with the fear of her finding you out.”

_You._ Hamilton is the one who did it and if Martha were ever to know that then he would be ruined in her mind forever. “Alright,” Hamilton says.

Burr leans forward, lifting up his head and Hamilton bends down accordingly, fitting his forehead in the nook of Burr’s neck and breathing in the reassuringly familiar sent. Burr puts a finger under his chin and tilts his head up to kiss him more insistently this time. Hamilton feels himself falling into it trying to deepen it as he opens his mouth but then as quickly as it started, Burr pulls away.

 “You should go now,” Burr says and pushes him away with an insistence that contradicts his kind tone. “You have to deal with John Adams. Remember why we’re doing this.”  

 

* * *

 

Hamilton fakes a yawn as he runs down the hall towards the short, stubby figure.

“Adams!” he calls, half whispering, as if mindful of the sleeping man in the room next to them. It’s ridiculous; it would take a lot to rouse a murdered man from his slumber.

The Vice President—or, supposedly, the President now, if the immediate succession works for Presidents as quickly as it does with the Divine Right of Kings. The President is dead, long live the President.

Fortunately they got rid of that monarchy nonsense at Yorktown. There’s more room for mobility now: especially if there’s no time for a vote. When Adams is out of the picture it will be between the Secretary of State and Treasury to fill in. And one of those men has fought alongside the President and knows how his mind words whilst the other has been gallivanting in France. 

“Hamilton?” Adams frowns at him, obviously bleary eyed, a little more drunk than tipsy, and shivering from the long walk Burr half forced him on outside.

“Did you have a nice walk with Burr?”

“Yes, the walk was very nice with your—Burr.”

Hamilton beamed. “Oh, Burr is no one’s anything, Adams. But I’m glad you enjoyed yourself all the same. The estate’s expansive. But there are some quick ways out of it; the one you came in by’s one, and there’s another down near the thicket—did Burr take you there? Ah, knew he would. It’s one of his favorite spots. There’s a gate at the end, leads down a mud track straight to the main road, good for a quick getaway.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Hamilton shrugs. “Making conversation. Your wife hasn’t retired for the night yet has she? Let me lead you to your rooms. They’re just down here. I hope they’re to your liking.”

He lets the bemused Adams walk in front and get out the keys to the room that Hamilton gave to him and Abigail when they arrived. Of course there are two pairs. Of course John Adams doesn’t know that. Adams unlocks the door and turns the handle, incriminating himself with every step.

The door opens, and Hamilton puts his hand over Adams’ mouth before he can scream. They’re almost exactly the same height and it’s hard to hold onto the shaking man. Adams is blubbering, getting spit all over Hamilton’s hand, and he has to concentrate to not pull it back and wipe it on the man’s shirt.

Hamilton anticipated the reaction and let Adams go first so hasn’t actually looked at the body yet. But, if he’s going to pull this off, he’s going to need more than a little disgust to get him through. He sneaks a look around the whimpering Adams, and Washington’s body is there, looking less human than when he left it, as if anything that tied the man to life is truly gone now. The same blood that Hamilton just washed off his hand is there, all over the floor, spread out and seeped into Washington’s white shirt, making it stick to his skin, showing the definite shape of his firm chest. He takes his hand away from Adams’ mouth once he’s sure the man won’t scream.

The dagger is where Hamilton left it, right in front of the open door, and as he hoped, Adams bends down and runs his hand over it, the blood transferring to the tips of his fingers. It’s delicate. But it’s probably enough for him to fake this. Hamilton takes a deep breath, closes the door behind them and backs into it, letting his back hit the wood loud enough to make Adams turn around.

“How could you do this?” Hamilton asks, and his voice breaks beautifully right on cue.

“What, I—”

“When did you do it? Aaron told me you left a while ago, I thought—I thought you were just taking you time but _shit_ you _bastard why the hell_ —” Hamilton regulates his voice, keeping the anger but lowering it to a quiet hiss.

“ _Why?_ ”

“I didn’t do _anything_ ,” Adams splutters. “I would never. I was with you!”

“No you weren’t. I found you wondering the halls alone—everyone else is downstairs still awake apart from Aaron and I together up here. What was it? Couldn’t take the thought of being second? The General—” and oh, Hamilton’s voice breaks for real now. This isn’t acting anymore. “To kill him now is the worst thing, when he’s just got what he’s worked for half his life to do. It would be too cruel anytime. But now. _Why Adams?_ ”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“That’s his blood on your hands!”

“I just touched it now—I just—I only just found this all with you. It’s your house!

“Yes, it is! And what was it you said at dinner about your job? _Nothing on the Presidency I’m sure_. Was this your plan? Do it in our house, in my rooms, see if you can throw suspicion off yourself? The second man in the land becomes the first. You never could have really been anything with Washington still alive. The saviour of our nation, our father.” Hamilton’s resolve is slipping and notices belatedly that there are tears running down his cheeks. “He never did anything but help us. And you had to rush the process along, get yourself to the Presidency sooner, you couldn’t just wait for it.”

“Hamilton—Mr Hamilton you have to realize, there is simply no way I could have killed—”

John Adams is on the defensive but he’s also quite obviously shitting himself. The one thing he is not, is remorseful: any momentary grief he may have felt for George Washington has been extinguished by his own survival instincts.

So Hamilton goes in for the kill.

“Who else could have done it? You had the room keys. Did Abigail sneak up before tea?”

“Abigail would never! Don’t you dare say my wife’s name, Hamilton.”

“A lot of people are going to be saying your wife’s name if it comes out she murdered the President. Unless she didn’t, and you did. I don’t even know if I can trust you right now.”

“No, no, no, no,” Adams choruses, stepping backwards and into the blood. Adams squeaks when he sees the red pooling around his feet. “I didn’t do it.”

“It was Abigail then?”

“No,” Adams says, surely. Then: “I don’t think so.”

“Would she?” he asks, secretly. He didn’t plan for the conversation to go here, but if it’s what it takes then he’s willing to do it. He has redefined the lines he’s willing to cross tonight and implicating Abigail Adams for murder comes nowhere near any of them. “If she thought she could take Mrs Washington’s place? Be first lady?”

“Abigail would never, trust me.”

“I want to trust you, Adams – John. But what about everyone else, when they find out? If not you, then it must be her.”

“Jefferson won’t believe that I could do this,” Adams says, very surely. Odd, Hamilton hadn’t known the two were friends.

“So he’ll blame Abigail?” Hamilton asks.

There’s a moment of silence. This is what Hamilton planned for: this moment of silence. It helps that John Adams is malleable. If it had been Abigail who came to bed first, Hamilton would probably be being arrested right now.

John looks down at the blood of the President on his shoe, on his fingers, on the dagger and says: “No one would have to know that Abigail could have done it. Not if – they thought someone else had done it.”

“You?” Hamilton whispers, thinking _you better not mean me you fat motherfucker._

“Yes,” Adams says, a single tear falling as he looks at the body. He’s not crying because Washington’s dead, he’s crying because he knows he’s as good as dead. “Me. Hamilton will you…would you…”

Hamilton gets a flash of realization, _oh, he’s going to beg,_ only seconds before.

“Please don’t let them blame Abigail, let it fall to me, and don’t – don’t mention this conversation. I’ll run. I’ll take that back exit. I’ll leave, tonight, or tomorrow,”

“Right now,” Hamilton suggests.

“Yes, right now. Before Abigail comes upstairs.” Adams gasps. “She’ll have to know I didn’t do it.”

“I’m sure she will.”

“And when we find out who did –”

“You mean if it isn’t Abigail?“

“I’ll come back when they find out. But it can’t be her, it must be an outside job, or something else. I’ll find out.”

Neither of them suggest suicide for the dagger is too far away, and no one would believe it of George Washington.

“Run then,” Hamilton says. “I won’t tell anyone, not even Abigail. But you can’t come back.”

Adams leaves without any fanfare, rushing out of the room after swapping shoes. Good, it leaves evidence. John Adams takes the loss of everything he’s ever worked for significantly better than Hamilton would have, and Hamilton can’t help but think this means the man didn’t deserve any of it.

Or perhaps that is what love is: a willingness to give up your own place in society and history to stop slander against their name. Hamilton wouldn’t know.

 

* * *

 

It seems strange, to lurk outside his own room waiting to be granted access. Every heartbeat echoes noisily around Burr's ears; every slow exhale punctures the silence; but he remains still and purposefully quiet. If he were Hamilton, he would be pacing - but he's not.

Still, he shifts his weight from foot to foot as he waits, feeling more restless than usual. Hamilton's reluctant confession still lingers insistently in the back of his mind - _Martha knows -_ and suddenly Burr's carefully formulated plan seems to be collapsing inwards on itself. He walked with Adams for over half an hour until his legs felt numb with the cold and he had muddied his best shoes, continued idle conversation about the pressing demands of the Vice-Presidency and suffered Adams helpfully suggesting ways to better maintain the outer courtyard... and yet he hadn't even been able to rely on Hamilton to ensure their gruesome secret stayed in Hamilton's bed chambers.

Now, to imagine Martha disturbing Theodosia's bed hangings as she plots to bring them both down - an ugly fear grips Burr's chest, and perhaps it is irrational, or unwarranted, perhaps Martha doesn't know everything or Washington was lying or-

He knocks again on the door loudly, pressing half-moon imprints into his palm as he curls his hands into fists.

"Mrs Washington?" Burr's voice sounds unnaturally loud in the corridor, but composed, assured. The thought of the Washingtons in his bed had discomfited him more than he is willing to admit, for even Hamilton has never stayed the night there. In some bizarre fashion it had seemed worth tainting the memory of his marriage to Theodosia with the Washingtons, if it meant carving out a new future with Hamilton, a future not continually hollowed out by Theo Jr's absence.

"Mr President?" he adds for good measure.

"Burr?"

The voice isn't Martha Washington's; it's not even the President's, despite Burr's unreasonable and horrified assumption in the moment. It's John Laurens'.

"Mr Laurens," Burr manages finally, turning away from the door to incline his head in the other man's direction. He can still remember Laurens' jibe from earlier.

"What are you doing up so late?" Laurens asks in a cheerful manner, although his heavy gaze seems to linger on Burr for more than is strictly necessary, his brows furrowed. Burr might be thinking too much. For a second he thinks he hears Martha move from inside his bedroom and his heart lurches sickeningly.

"I was just checking on the President," Burr replies assuredly, stepping forwards to meet Laurens, "I wanted to make sure everything was to their satisfaction. But it seems I've arrived too late and they've both gone to bed."

Laurens nods, glancing at the door and then back at Burr with a slow deliberation to the movement. As if imprinting every detail to memory. As if remembering, for later.

"It's good to see you again," Burr offers, at the same time Laurens closes the gap between them and says " _Burr"_ again, an insistent edge to his tone.

"It's getting late, Colonel Laurens," Burr says finally, his voice low. "Whatever you have to say to me, I am sure it can wait to the morning." Laurens stills, looking ready to argue, his eyes flashing in the dim light of the hallway - and then his shoulders slump in concession.

"You're right, now isn't the appropriate moment. Tell Alexander to get a good night's rest."

"I will be sure to pass on your concerns," Burr replies stiffly, and makes sure to watch as Laurens strides down the end of the hallway, his heart drumming erratically against the honeycomb structure of his rib-cage. Paranoia scratches underneath his skin as he thinks momentarily about the knowing glint in Laurens' eye, the purpose to which he had advanced on Burr. He had been there, after all, with Hamilton - had heard the prophecies.

_He can't possibly know what has happened_ Burr reassures himself uncomfortably, rummaging in his pockets for the spare key to his room. From what he has seen of John Laurens, if the man suspected any harm had befallen Washington he certainly wouldn't have been able to hold the shaky resolve he did in the moment.

Come the morning, however-

Burr brushes the thoughts aside as he unlocks the door, stating firmly at the same time, "Sorry to intrude Mrs Washington, I just-"

The unspoken words hitch painfully in his chest and refuse to let go.

The room is empty.

The sheets are still made, although rumpled - the window has been pushed wide open, which Theodosia had always hated, always gravitating towards the enveloping warmth by instinct. She had spent the last few days of her life with a fever so high the sheets had been drenched in sweat, and yet when he had moved to open the window she had begged him not to, her voice rasping and muted as she burrowed further in the covers.

The window shouldn't be open, but it is, and midst the half-stifled panic that surges in Burr's chest, he feels a stab of petty resentment for Martha and the President and the way they had subtly altered his room to allow Theodosia's ghost to dissipate.

There is nothing to be done, however. If Martha has fled, she has left before sharing her suspicions with anyone, and Burr can work with that reprieve. So he backs out of his room, locks it again with a steadiness to his hands that isn't matched in the racing flow of his thoughts.

Despite the haphazard approach Hamilton has taken to most of the plan - the wild, frenzied gleam in his eyes as he had approached Burr after the murder and looked on the verge of tears - Burr has confidence in his ability to set Adams up to take the fall. And after that, what is there to worry about?

_Only John Laurens_ , his mind unhelpfully provides, but he has become quite proficient at distracting himself from discomfiting thoughts like that one, and so he walks back to his temporary quarters with a languid, easy pace.

 

* * *

 

It's comfortable, warm, and quiet in bed.

For a moment, everything that has happened in the evening seems detached from their room. Burr shifts against Hamilton, listens to his mostly steady exhales as he distractedly toys with his hair, tries to relax.

After all, Washington is dead, his tall, lifeless body sprawled back against Hamilton's bed sheets. Burr can't quite visualize what he might look like but it is better that way, to not preoccupy himself with concerns over something that is firmly in the past. Next to him, Hamilton moves again restlessly, his fingers drifting against Burr's waist in a constant, steady motion.

"You did good today," Burr tells Hamilton, his voice low as he tilts his head to press his lips against the side of Hamilton's temple. Hamilton breathes out in silent reply, his fingers momentarily stilling before beginning to trace lines on Burr's skin once again.

"It'll be worth it," Hamilton replies finally, as if trying to convince himself.

"Of course it will," Burr replies firmly, "Come, let's sleep - there's a lot to do in the morning." Hamilton nods in unspoken agreement, leaning over to blow out the small, weeping candle on the night stand.

Just before he snuffs it out, a woman's scream pierces the night air.

Hamilton bolts upright, his eyes wild with a momentary fear as Burr reaches out to still his movements.

"It's Abigail," Burr says finally as realization dawns. "She's discovered the body."

Hamilton hums in distracted agreement, pale in the flickering light.

"We should go investigate. Follow me in a couple of moments, once you've composed yourself," Burr suggests, reaching out to smooth a few strands of hair away from Hamilton's forehead with deft fingers. "No rest for the wicked," he adds jestingly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Washington's murder and the disappearance of both the First Lady and the Vice President, everyone struggles to cope. Except Jefferson, whose Virginian charm actually works on someone.

"Wait."

Hamilton's voice stills Burr as he stands in the doorway, peering out into the gaping black of the hallway. The lamplight is flickering wildly, caught by some unknown breeze, and for a second Hamilton's expression seems inscrutable.

"We don't have time," Burr says in response, gesturing in the direction of Hamilton's quarters. The bedroom they are currently in is unfamiliar, a tucked away guest room that had never been used whilst he and Theodosia had lived together - and in the deepness of the night, it feels like another plane entirely.

"It's important." Hamilton's voice is urgent as he moves towards Burr, his movements erratic in the half-dark. "About Adams - I didn't tell you everything that happened."

"Should I be concerned?" Burr counters sharply, glancing over his shoulder in the direction of Abigail's shout, panic suddenly gripping his chest. A variety of different, quickly escalating situations occur to him in quick succession: Adams knows, Adams has escaped, Adams knows where Martha is, Adams has already told everyone of their guilt. He tries to keep a steady, unrattled composure in the moments between his sharp question and Hamilton's eventual reply, but for a moment his stomach lurches sickeningly with the prospect of their plot being uncovered. His plot being uncovered. Hamilton would have people to root for him - Laurens, Lafayette, even Martha he supposes, since Washington had only suspected Burr - but who did Burr have to defend him against the allegations?

"No, I dealt with it, I told you," Hamilton says finally, sounding irritated as he stands in front of Burr. It is cold in the chambers, but as Hamilton reaches out to press his palm against Burr's chest soothingly, fingers stretching, the warmth of his hand seeps into Burr's skin. "I took him to - to the room, as we agreed, and I made sure he stepped in the blood, and then I talked him through the escape route by the thicket-"

"There's no way out by the thicket," Burr corrects automatically, his mind briefly dancing over the suggestion of an escape route.

"I know," Hamilton says again, and he emits a breathless sort of laugh, devoid of emotion. "I've lived here long enough. That was the point."

Burr frowns, unable to comprehend the direction Hamilton's own thoughts are travelling in; not necessarily an infrequent occurrence, although if anyone can keep up with Hamilton's knotted tangle of thoughts, it is undoubtedly him. And then, realisation dawns suddenly, as if he has been rudely woken up.

"You cornered him?" It is phrased as a question, although once he had voiced it aloud, he is confident in his assertion. He tries to imagine the scene unfolding, Adams stumbling down the muddy path Burr had used to traverse with Theodosia Jr in the warm summers, Hamilton striding behind him with familiar confidence gleaming in his eyes, the murder weapon - the same one he used to murder Washington? - dripping obscenely.

Adams' face, creasing in confusion, then blanching in terror.

"He didn't know what was happening," Hamilton explains hurriedly, as if wanting to impart his confession as quickly as possible, to allow him to think on it less. "It was over quickly - I think he was shocked, and when he realised that of course, it was me who-" His breath hitches painfully on the last word, his voice threatening to crack, and Burr's brows knit together in concern as he reaches out to ease the tension lining Hamilton's shoulders

"Is the body there now?" His voice is low, but equally as urgent - how much longer can they reasonably expect Abigail's shriek to go unanswered? They need to both be there, to express their horror, to act like the perfect hosts.

Hamilton nods, uncharacteristically silent.

"I'll deal with it - not now - in the morning," Burr offers, withdrawing from Hamilton in an attempt to recollect his thoughts. The image of Adams lying sprawled along the muddy track, mouth agape in unspoken horror, settles uncomfortably in the back of Burr's mind and persists. "But come, I have to go to Abigail - I should go first," he adds emphatically, as Hamilton moves to speak. For once, he manages to cut him off, "for they will suspect me more, you know they will. Even with Adams as our prime suspect."

"Did you find Martha?" Hamilton asks instead. Burr isn't sure if he imagines the reluctance edging Hamilton's tone, if he is anticipating something he doesn't want to hear. Burr thinks he can hear voices from down the hall, dipped in quiet tension.

"Yes," he answers hurriedly, before amending his response when Hamilton blinks in confusion at the abrupt answer, "Yes, I've dealt with all of that. I told you. You don't need to worry about anything else, I'm dealing with it all." His stomach twists with a little guilt at the hasty secret, but he brushes past it quickly enough - if Hamilton had dispatched Washington quicker there would have been no need for him to clean up after the other man's mess in the first place.

"Now wait here a few moments and then follow me," he adds slowly, tilting his face to catch Hamilton's lips in a quick, hurried and all too brief kiss, before he pulls back and strides towards the scene of the crime.

 

* * *

 

At the top of the stairs, Abigail takes a moment to collect herself, trying to recall which door is hers and John's for the night. Martha Washington retired to bed before the rest of them, and Jefferson was gesticulating wildly to Madison about the proper etiquette in billiards when Abigail bid them goodnight.

John went upstairs before her, knowing him he would be forcing himself to stay awake until she gets there. He never likes to go to sleep before saying goodnight, likes to have the last words he said be to her every evening. Abigail Adams is a sensible woman who openly admits that her husband is oversentimental. However, it would be rude to make him wait longer than necessary and she might not admit it as often but it is wonderful to have those few final words just for them

The Vice President is actually rather adorable in the moments before sleep. Abigail’s mind is preoccupied so she is smiling when she tries the door, finding it unlocked and walks through.

The strikingly distinct body of President Washington is the first thing she sees, the second thing being the recognition that he is dead.

The dignity and ease of express that always graced his face is frozen into a death pang of disbelief and pain.

The blood has almost stopped flowing out from under him like a leaking tap reaching its last vestiges. The dark wood floor hides most of the blood but the substantial pool of red is interrupted by a pair of discarded shoes, covered in Washington’s blood.

She recognizes the shoes as her husband’s and realizes John is nowhere to be seen.

That’s when she screams.

Her mind is consumed with her husbands’ whereabouts and it is Lieutenant-Colonel Laurens’ hand on her shoulder and a quiet murmur of “ma’lady” that awakens her from her waking sleep.

“He’s gone,” she says, not knowing whether she means Washington or her husband.

Laurens is holding her shoulder, as if to offer support but his hand is shaking and making her feel like her insides are rattling. She was calm until her touched her and let his own anxiety infect her. She steps half a step away and he pulls two steps back.

“Mrs Adams, what happened?” he asks, without looking at the body. Abigail had heard tales of John Laurens’ bravery and yet here the man is, shaking and refusing to make eye contact with a corpse.

“I don’t know. I arrived, Lieutenant Colonel and found the President dead. Unsurprisingly I did not stop to reconstruct the events leading up to it and rather felt summoning the household was the more pressing matter.”

At this moment, Burr bursts into the room and visibly recoils upon seeing the body.

“The President,” he whispers then steps forwards quickly until the three of them create an odd half-moon around George Washington’s corpse. “And in your chambers Mrs Adams? It’s too terrible by far to be true -”

“It would be too terrible anywhere,” Laurens says, glaring at Burr now, having swapped to staring at him to avoid looking at the body. Abigail is relieved, there was something too intense in Laurens’ gaze if one was exposed to it for too long.

The sound of shouts, “Abigail?” and footsteps on the stairs announce the arrival of Thomas and Mr Madison.

Jefferson takes in the scene slowly, leaning back as if to survey it more fully. He focuses on the body, the shoes, and then on Abigail. He faces shows no more than customary shock that one might find at an unexpected extra course at dinner.

“Abigail,” he repeats, and she nods trying to convey all of her worry, confusion, and upheaval in that one movement.

That is of course when James Madison chooses to faint.

Thomas catches his smaller friend before he hits the floor, swearing quietly in French as he eases Madison down to the ground. “The blood,” Thomas explains, “y’all understand it’s rather overwhelming.

Laurens awkwardly bows his head. “Where’s your husband?”

Abigail tries to keep her face blank but her eyes wonder to the bloodstained shoes and Laurens stills.

“I’ll kill the bastard myself,” Laurens hisses and moves towards the door.

“If you could refrain from discussing murder in front of a Lady, especially when discussing her husband.” Burr steps forwards reaching out to drag Laurens back but the Laurens shrugs Burr off.

“Fuck off Burr.”

“I disapprove of the Lieutenant-Colonel’s language, but would like to mirror his assertion,” Abigail glares at Burr. “My being a woman does not affect me so very much. It seems I am more composed than at least a third of the present company.”

Thomas spares a moment to look up from worrying over Madison to wink at her.

Hamilton arrives last and, for once in the unremarkable man’s existence, without words. His hair looks like black ink, unwashed and as if he had been asleep – or running his hand through it as he wrote perhaps. He is still in his breeches and shirt but nothing else and Abigail considers looking away before remembering her husband isn’t in the room. She can feel Thomas’s eyes upon her again.

However, Hamilton does not spare her a glance. Both Burr and Laurens are watching the man and both reach out almost unperceivably as Hamilton passes by them. Hamilton walks like a ghost drawn to the promise of resurrection as he breaks the half circle of shocked mourners and steps into the dead man’s blood. His shoes are now as corrupted as John’s but Hamilton takes it a step further and sinks to his knees. He shakes his head and leans down over the body as if in prayer.

Abigail supposes this is what love looks like.

Burr gasps but it is Laurens who moves first, putting his hand on Hamilton’s shoulder like he did with her, then letting it slide around and cups the kneeling man’s neck. Laurens looks down at Hamilton with such intensity that Abigail wonders if it would be so bad to be the subject of that gaze after all.

“This isn’t right,” Laurens says and Hamilton lets out a half groan, his eyes fixed on the body whilst Laurens looks anywhere but.

“Where’s Martha?” Abigail asks sharply, the thought suddenly occurring, the dread gripping her chest.

“She’s gone.” The sound comes from Hamilton, the words sounding raw and ugly in the air. “I went to check – when I heard the noise – I went to His Excellency- the Preside- Washington’s room and no-one was there.” A hollow hush descends upon the room in the wake of this damning announcement. The silence seems never-ending.

The men in the room, other than Thomas and Burr, are not in any position to make decisions, and the President is dead.

Abigail’s husband may be the one with the Vice President title but she knew more than a few things about ruling.

“Take them downstairs,” she tells Burr, inclining her head towards Laurens and Hamilton. There is a moment of hesitation from Lieutenant-Colonel Burr before he relents and nods. Shame, it might have calmed her to be able to pull rank. He leads Hamilton up and Laurens follows, keeping his hold on his friend as if scared he might lose him too if he looked away for a moment. She watches the three of them leave and feels an intense desire to be with her husband, going to bed and saying their prayers like any other night. She steels herself and turns to Thomas. ’“Is Mr Madison going to survive the fright?”

“I believe so.” Thomas carefully teases off Madison’s jacket then folds it and places it carefully under the shorter, unconscious man’s head.

Abigail cannot resist the light coo of: “Thomas, I didn’t know you cared.”

The glare Thomas shoots her looks too much like a grin as stands up straight to his full height - it is rather impressive, she concedes, even before the addition of his hair. He walks up, sauntering the few steps between them and raises an eyebrow. Only once he’s reached her does he look down and lift his foot tentatively to poke at a part of Washington’s leg not covered in blood.

“Did you do this?” he asks, lazily.

She does a double take but finds no joke or judgement in his eyes. She lets out a breath and relaxes for the first time since seeing John’s shoes; she remembers this is Thomas she is talking to.

“No, of course I didn’t,” Abigail replies firmly, “In my own bedroom? Calling you all here to witness my guilt? I like to think you have more respect for me than that.” Thomas raises an eyebrow as if considering her arguments before nodding.

“But you can’t think John did it.” His tone is more curious than condemning – with anyone else, Abigail might have felt offended on John’s behalf, but with Thomas the thought never occurs. She shakes her head instead, trying to shape her thoughts into words as she moves away from the body.

“He’s obviously been here and seen the body, but he never would have done anything like this. Both you and I know that.” Her voice is careful, but assured. Thomas offers her a crooked, private grin in response to her observation, as if John is a fond inside joke between the two of them.

“I’ll bet you he’s wandering around the grounds trying to find you, only he’s taken the wrong turning and ended up in that ugly little garden,” Thomas suggests with open disdain.

“It was badly maintained,” Abigail agrees, deciding to appeal to Thomas’ sudden and strange dislike of Secretary Hamilton if it means ascertaining John’s whereabouts. “I do think it’s possible he’s tried to run. Seeing something like this...” Her voice trails off into momentary silence, trying to picture John stumbling across Washington’s corpse, imagining the fear and horror he must have felt, so much more pronounced than her own. He has always been the more emotive of the two of them – she has always loved him for it.

“Awful,” Thomas supplies amiably, “Just awful. I’m sure we’ll find him in the morning Abigail. I’ll lead your personal search party.” He carefully side steps the drying pool of blood to rest a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“First thing in the morning,” Abigail says with a nod, “We’ll never find him in this darkness.”

“As soon as we finish breakfast,” Thomas corrects. “It’s a date.”

“I’ll need somewhere to stay for the night,” she adds, the thought suddenly occurring. It’s relaxing, to think of details, to think of something concrete and mundane rather than the lurching uncertainty of the future.

“Stay with me,” Thomas offers carelessly.

“Thomas,” Abigail cautions, and although she doesn’t smile, she knows he can hear it in her voice.

“It’s a big bed, Abigail,” he says, as if he is appalled by her interpretation.

“I’m sure it is,” she replies, “But it won’t be necessary for tonight. No-one will be staying in the Washington’s room, not with Martha having left-“ She bats away the questions over the sudden disappearance for now, deciding she can confront them in the morning, once she’s found John. “And it would be a shame to leave it empty, after all the work Lieutenant-Colonel Burr has undoubtedly put in to make it presentable.”

“Don’t worry about John,” Thomas asserts confidently as he moves over to Madison once more, crouching down beside him to readjust the crumpled, makeshift pillow. “He’ll be fine, if a little spooked.”

“I know better than to bet against my husband,” Abigail says in reply, before leaving the room.

 

* * *

 

Madison rushes towards the duo as they re-enter the house. The urgency of the situation is obvious when he only coughs once before asking. "Did you find him?"

Abigail shakes her head and distantly hears Thomas start to offer reassuring platitudes to Mr Madison but her own mind is consumed with thoughts of John. The devil sneaks in to her thoughts and for the first time since seeing the blood on his shoes she wonders if her husband, her quiet brilliant John, could have actually killed for the sake of ambition. It is not that it seems completely out of character, but more that he would have at least raised the issue giving her time to talk him out of it. Or at least out of doing it this way. There is too much confusion in the Hamilton-Burr household. Martha Washington and John are both still missing and suspicion is catching like wild-fire.

Obviously, Thomas' platitudes were not enough for Madison is shaking his head and saying: "I can't do this."

"James - " Thomas says, affronted. "Pull yourself together."

But Madison continues to shake his head and runs to the door, gathering two bags that Abigail had not seen until then. "We need to figure this out. You can't tell me this seems _normal_ to you."

"One person is dead and two are missing, Thomas. None of this is normal. I need to get home to Dolley. Please understand." He leans forward and kisses Thomas on both cheeks, a relic of Thomas' time in France surely, and then, blushing, Madison repeats the gesture with her. A small bow is delivered and then James Madison is gone, his footman opening the door and relieving him of his bags, leading him to a Virginia bound carriage and a way out of this entanglement of murder and suspicion.

Abigail Adams knows more than a few things about ruling, but for a brief moment she longs for Massachusetts.

 

* * *

 

It's a relief to have Washington's funeral out of the way; a sore sticking point on what turned out to be an otherwise uncomplicated plan. It seemed the entire country had been clad in mourning black, and Burr had found it difficult to not be upset by this, to not dwell on people more deserving of the country's grief than Washington. Hamilton didn't seem to agree with him.

That is behind them both now. For now, Hamilton is President, and they are celebrating, even if Burr has to keep hastily correcting himself to _Interim President_ when he speaks to people. Like now, with James Reynolds.

"I don't understand why Jefferson wasn't selected above Hamilton," the man is saying with an indifferent shrug. Burr examines the contents of his glass, noting the shift of colours on the surface, before raising his head to smile at Reynolds.

"Mr Jefferson had been detained in France for a while, as you know, and so isn't as intimately familiar with the country's current affairs as Alexander." It still rattled him, that they had undertaken the shared murder of Washington - then Burr had disposed of the bloodied, damp corpse of John Adams - they had spent the past few weeks carefully covering their tracks - all for a Presidency that might last two months at best. Still. It is a start.

"Alright, I suppose that makes sense," Reynolds allows, throwing a careless glance at his wife who stands beside him, her strangely weighty gaze resting on Burr. "But there were loads of other candidates that should have been considered alongside Hamilton - if you don't mind me saying." The courtesy is delivered with a slow deliberation, and the smile Reynolds offers him bats away any slight concern Burr might have had that the offering was genuine.

"Not particularly," Burr replies finally, "As Secretary of the Treasury, however recently appointed, and with a history of a close working relationship with Washington - the only other person that might have had a stronger claim was Mrs Adams. But what with her husband being... under suspicion," he decides carefully, puncturing the sentence with a long sip of his drink, "I'm sure you can appreciate why she was not chosen, in the end."

"An unmarried President. Who would've thought it." The interruption is not from Reynolds, but rather his wife. Burr glances over at Maria, uncertainty rigid in his body at the inclusion to the conversation, a familiar flare of irritation surging. It's correct, in all of the ways that matters, he supposes. And yet-

"The country is young enough that I suppose there are no traditions in place for what is required of a President," Burr replies, an attempted joviality ringing jarringly in his words. "And Alexander was married once."

"A very sad story, I've heard," Reynolds interjects disdainfully, "Well, I'll be interested to see how he does. Send him my regards." And with that, Reynolds strides off, not before clapping Burr on the shoulder in a show of cordiality. Maria lingers for a second, as if on the verge of saying something. Burr waits, trepidation itching just below his skin, before she favours him with another impassive look and follows her husband.

For a second, Burr remains rooted to the spot, strangely numb. Then, with some difficulty, he pulls himself away from the spot, moving hurriedly through the crowds in an attempt to find Hamilton. Usually, he might stop and speak to the people he is now rudely brushing by, but the conversation with Reynolds has left him strangely off kilter, and when he finally spots Hamilton standing aside from the crowd, staring down at his drink with the same unfathomable expression Burr has seen distorting his features for the past few weeks, his urgency only increases.

He had assumed seeing Hamilton might ease the tension, but instead, everything seems heightened. Burr supposes it makes sense - when has seeing Hamilton ever done anything but introduce more complications into his life?

"What are you thinking?" It's the only thing that comes to mind as he stills in front of Hamilton, a careful distance away. He's not sure why he keeps the deliberate gap. It seems safer, somehow, to conduct this business through a degree of separation - whilst they're in public.

Hamilton glances up, vaguely startled.

"Nothing. Nothing of interest, at any rate, it's all a load of nonsense in my head at the moment," he replies brusquely, proffering his drink towards Burr. "Do you want this? I don't really have the stomach for it." Burr takes the drink cautiously, before broaching his concerns.

"We can't have done all of this for just two months of an interim presidency. You need to do something."

"What would you like me to do?" Hamilton retorts, a mirthless smile curving his lips. "Change the Constitution? Declare myself King over America - no, I shouldn't say that loudly, I imagine Jefferson might latch onto it as another reason to disparage me." This time, the smile that Hamilton offers Burr is half genuine, as if the prospect of Jefferson alone amuses him. Perhaps it does.

"Don't be ridiculous," Burr says in open irritation. "Are you really willing to let all of this slide - everything we've done?" His voice drops as he finally closes the gap between him and Hamilton - still a suitable distance between them, still decorous. "Will it be worth it?"

Hamilton stills - as if reducing his movements might numb the blow of emotion.

"Of course not." The reply is certain, as always, but it comes after a long pause. "I'm doing this for Philip, for you, for our future. I'll think of something." He leans in teasingly close, "I always do, don't I?"

Burr relaxes despite himself. "Don't be so cocksure. There's only so many times your stars can align."

"The stars don't always have to fight against you. And I just need it to happen once more," Hamilton counters, reaching out to brush at Burr's shoulder. "That's all."

 

* * *

 

The announcement comes exactly thirteen days later.

"You did _what?_ " Burr hisses, stepping into Hamilton's personal space, glad they are alone when this had to come out.

"You're the one who told me to do something," Hamilton says, with a smirk. "And it certainly achieved our ulterior objective of aggravating Jefferson. I'd say it's rather perfect."

"Your first act as President is to abolish all slavery."

"You're welcome."

"I am not thanking you," he says, trying to show only his anger but Hamilton's moods have always been contagious. Hamilton looks too proud though, and Burr remembers his earlier years of resenting Hamilton's success too vividly to not want to pull the man down off his pedestal. "No one will vote for it."

"I disagree."

"And if it fails? No one will support you."

"It fails. It's a strong policy that we both believe in. For once in our lives we can do something that actually makes a difference. We lied, and we _killed_ for this chance." Burr looks around frantically but Hamilton leans in and grasps his arm, drawing his attention back to him and his wild eyes with dark blown pupils. "It's memorable and if Jefferson stands up against it he'll seem morally reprehensible. If this passes they won't be able to dislodge me so easily; I'll stay President."

Slowly, Burr feels the words fall into place in his mind. The cogs turn and the clock starts to move again and for the first time since the burial everything seems to fall into place. The clock starts to toll. They are running out of time and this is the way to secure their future. With the finality of the final toll, he nods. "That's why we need it."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurens thinks Hamilton and Burr might be...up to something.

John Laurens doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but he knows who he’s doing it for and that's enough to make him knock on the door. The man he’s here to see – trying to help – opens the door with his brow furrowed.

“Laurens?” Hamilton asks, trying to cover himself up. He’s obviously just woken up. He’s in his long shirt and is doing up his breeches. From the flush high on his cheeks Laurens wonders if he’s interrupting anything, and is about to make a joke about how they shared a tent and this isn’t the first time he’s walked in on something – when he hears a cough from inside the bedroom.

“Burr’s awake then?” Laurens asks, all bite, stepping back. He doesn’t want to be anywhere near a room where that happened.

Hamilton pulls on a waistcoat and his jacket, eyes wide and plaintive. “Please wait. Breakfast?” he offers it as a peace offering and Laurens is ashamed at how quickly he accepts. He lets Hamilton recover his dignity before meeting the rest of the household, organising his dress and appearance. Laurens wants to know why he deigned to open the door in such a hurry if he wasn’t ready to step outside but isn’t sure now is the time to discover the extent of his friend’s paranoia.

Hamilton is the President now he should know better than to answer his bedroom door in a state of undress, but perhaps he should also know better than to let anyone else into his bedroom.

Like with a lot of things, these days, Laurens doesn’t question it. He wants to, but he stays quiet. At the inauguration he stayed silent, not voicing how this was never something Hamilton had wanted. After the proposal of the emancipation act Laurens thought he understood it more, seeing the _good_ Hamilton could do with the power. Tonight was the final vote on the matter, and thus everyone was gathered. When the act got through the first vote in congress, Laurens had wanted to kiss Hamilton more than he had in years, but the other man had only had eyes for Burr.

Everyone is already downstairs: for once in his life, Alexander Hamilton has overslept. The prerogative of the President perhaps.

Instead of staying out of it or remembering his place – below Hamilton now – Laurens says: “What’s going on?”

Hamilton shoots him a quizzical look.

“I don’t trust, Burr.”

Hamilton shakes his head.

“I think he’s dangerous,” Laurens elaborates. He looks around the corridor, finds it empty and says quickly before he can censor himself: “I worry he had something to do with Washington’s – ”

Laurens can’t finish as Hamilton has cornered him and has him backed against a wall.

“Alexander –” Hamilton’s hand is holding his across his chest. “What’s he said to you? If he's hurt you I'll kill him. Has he threatened you?”

“No, Laurens - Burr didn’t kill Washington.”

“I didn’t say he necessarily had. But your reaction makes me think –”

“I just didn’t want you saying those things about him,” Hamilton says, all wide earnest eyes. He loosens his grip on Laurens until it’s as if he’s simply holding his hand whilst standing too close against a wall in a deserted hallway in the President’s residence. Still a hard scene to talk their way out of if found.

“Then tell me I’m wrong,” Laurens gasps.

Hamilton looks up at him and he looks nothing like a leader. For a second he looks scared. Then he steels his gaze: “You’re wrong,” he says and Laurens is about to let out a breath even though his chest is still tight. But Hamilton isn’t done. “Burr didn’t kill Washington.”

“Then who? Adams?”

“No,” Hamilton says the word as if it were obvious, then notices what he’s said and his eyes widen.

“Martha?” Laurens asks, half hysterically.

Hamilton’s brain to mouth barrier is obviously malfunctioning as he says: “That was an accident.”

Laurens has known pain on the battlefield and at the hand of harsh words from his father, but never anything like the cold that stabs him and descends with Hamilton’s words here. “What was an accident?”

“Martha was never meant to be involved,” Hamilton whispers and that is all he needs.

The plan falls into place before Laurens’ eyes as if he had created it himself. It’s almost perfect in its simplicity and Laurens can’t understand why no one has caught them yet.

“You said Burr didn’t kill the General. So who did?”

Hamilton flinches.

“Fuck,” Laurens hisses out the curse in one long breath. “He _loved_ you.”

“No he didn’t,” Hamilton says too quickly, “people say that. All the General ever did was find me useful.”

“And you thought you’d put the pretty words of a prophecy from the mouth of a phantom dressed like your dead wife above the leader of the free world?”

Hamilton takes a step back but Laurens grabs his hand now.

“Tell me it’s a lie. A sick joke. Tell me Washington is here and alive and everything is – ”

“It’s not,” Hamilton is gasping for breath and Laurens realises he has his arm across the smaller man’s windpipe pushing him back against a window. “Not a joke.”

“Fuck, _no_ Ham – no. It can’t’ve been the prophecies that led you to this, there wasn’t enough – ”

“They said I would be President, and here I am.” The last three words are accentuated even as Hamilton gasps them. Laurens pulls away, letting him stumble slightly as he regains the ability to breath. Laurens can’t believe himself, can’t believe he just did that.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have,” he reaches out and prays Hamilton won’t flinch away.

Hamilton waves him off calmly instead, and nods. “I understand it’s a shock.”

The laugh that escapes Laurens is hysterical.

“I was starting to believe it was actually Adams. Next thing you’re going to tell him he was hiding in the closet.”

“No, Adams is dead. I killed him,” Hamilton adds, as if it was not clear.

Laurens steps back. “This isn’t you.”

“Yes it is.”

“It’s Burr.”

“Don’t blame him for this, Laurens.”

“He’s got you convinced you’re a murderer my dear boy, but I know you and _this isn’t you_.”

Hamilton turns away from him and runs a hand through his hair. It is still down rather than tied up, a relic of the lazy morning he must have been having with Burr in the bedroom. Laurens can’t stomach any of it: images in his mind are mixing together of the General lying dead, the General laughing with Hamilton back at camp, then Hamilton laughing with Burr, Burr and Hamilton in their room—it is almost too much when Hamilton speaks again.

“You can’t tell a soul,” he whispers, turning to Laurens. “So?” Laurens doesn’t move or speak and so Hamilton reaches forward and lets his fingers ghost over the inside of Laurens’ wrist. “John,” he says.

And Laurens wants to argue. Wants to say that it’s not fair for Hamilton to use this against him when he has moved on. Wants to appeal to him to lie or to make time turn back. Wants to shout and challenge him to a duel and avenge Washington. Wants to hold Hamilton and tell the scared, shaking boy before him who the room downstairs calls their President that he will fix things. But some things can’t be fixed. The images are back in his head of all of them and nothing and scenes he’s never seen and never wants to imagine and Laurens wants to say that he could never tell a soul because he will never be able to think straight again and then –

“We’re missing you at breakfast, boys,” Jefferson says crossing his arms. “Mr President,” he drawls, an afterthought if ever there were one.

Hamilton is still looking at him wide eyed and waiting for an answer, fear edging his expression clearer than it ever did in battle.

“Is that all decided then, Laurens?” Hamilton asks.

Laurens nods once and lets Jefferson lead him downstairs. “The President will join us shortly,” he informs the other man. “He seems to have misplaced his shoes.”

 

 

* * *

 

When Burr next sees Hamilton, he knows immediately something has gone wrong.

Years spent by Hamilton's side has attuned him to every flicker of emotion, every slight change in expression - even if he can't decipher the unfathomable thoughts crowding Hamilton's brain, he can always tell that something has gone wrong. He doesn't need anything that refined to note Hamilton's change of mood today: it's plain on his face for everyone to see.

Thankfully, they're alone - or, at least, as alone as they can be in the crowded banquet hall.

"Aaron." The use of his Christian name make Burr uneasy - Hamilton very rarely uses it, and only when it's entwined with a plea for help. His hair is still unkempt, the way it had been when they had woken up to a knock at the door earlier on, and Hamilton fidgets guiltily with it, attempting to smooth the wild strands into a more manageable style.

"Has something happened?" Burr responds with an edge of caution to his voice, glancing around at the indifferent people surrounding them. It had gotten quieter since Washington's funeral, and yet still, in the wake of Hamilton's inauguration, there were too many people in the room. Jefferson for one; Abigail Adams for another; John Laurens, their unwelcome early morning visitor, for a third.

"I've screwed up," Hamilton tells him, the blunt words undercut by an ugly desperation that bleeds into the syllables. He reaches out to press trembling fingers against the stiff material of Burr's jacket, as if hoping to drain some of Burr's superficial composure into his own figure. "I - when John came earlier we were talking and -"

"Keep your voice down," Burr hisses, pulling Hamilton towards the edge of the room; Hamilton allows himself to be pulled obediently, eyes widen, looking dazed and shell-shocked by his own actions. For the first time in a while, Burr feels fear creep and settle in his chest. "What have you done?"

He breathes slowly, his fingers still curled around the soft material of Hamilton's shirt.

"I told John about His Excellency - Washington. And Adams. I told him everything." Hamilton's voice cracks audibly on the last word as he closes the gap between him and Burr, smoothing out Burr's jacket with distracted hands. "I'm sorry, I just - he's my best friend and he won't tell, I know him, he'll keep our secret. Please say something."

There's a loud, off-key ringing in Burr's ears. For a second, it drowns out all of his thoughts as he stands there staring at Hamilton.

He doesn't know what to say.

_Martha knows._

_Washington already suspected something - well, he suspected you._

_I told John._

Burr has to concentrate very hard on swallowing the panic surging in his chest. Instead, he bites down very hard on the inside of his cheek, the momentary pain distracting him from this sudden savage frustration.

"Why would you do that?" he asks finally, carefully, once he's certain his voice won't waver and betray him. Hamilton looks confused, for once his mind not working as fast as Burr's, not already snaking three sentences ahead, so Burr clarifies. "Why would you tell him? If you cared about him as much as you say, you wouldn't have put him in this situation."

"I don't understand," Hamilton fires back, too quickly. "I know I messed up, but I'm sure once I explain everything to him properly, he'll understand why we did it." The air of bravado that Hamilton adopts doesn't seem to convince himself, let alone Burr, but his frozen smile doesn't falter. Burr takes one clear step away from Hamilton, disentangling himself from the touch that seems to burn too hot against his shirt.

Over in the middle of the room, Laurens is talking to Abigail Adams. They seem deep in conversation, their heads angled together as Burr studies them warily, trying to formulate a response to Hamilton's flimsy reasoning.

What are they talking about?

The paranoia spiking up Burr's spine is uneasy. He doesn't like it: it makes him feel out of control, liable to do something he might regret. Still. It's difficult to fight back when Abigail is staring at Laurens very firmly, as if he has said something of unprecedented importance to her.

He remembers John Adams' body, sprawled messily in the mud where Hamilton had left it. Remembers disposing of the body in the woods, the way the man's dry blood had somehow gotten under his fingernails and stubbornly lingered for the next day – the way the corpse had smelt, intermingling with the scent of wet mud after a light rainfall.

"He's talking to Abigail Adams," Burr says very softly, touching his fingertips very lightly to Hamilton's elbow to prompt him to turn. "That's him sealing our fate. That's you sealing our fate."

"They're just talking," Hamilton responds after a beat of sudden, hurt silence. But he sounds even more unconvinced than before, and his gaze lingers for a long time on Laurens' back, as if attempting to read his thoughts.

"Are you willing to risk our future on a presumption?" Burr returns evenly, although his stomach twists uncomfortably. He's never liked Laurens, not particularly, always felt strangely needled by the man's jeering taunts and the comfortable manner in which he behaves around Hamilton. Still, the plan currently forming itself in his head seems more unnecessary than assassinating Washington; they have nothing to gain from it, only a reprieve from losing something else.

"He wouldn't," Hamilton insists, fear bleeding openly into his voice. "He knows - he knows I have to look after Philip, and I told him it wasn't you, he thought it was you and I told him otherwise and he seemed to understand and-" The sentence cuts off abruptly as Hamilton finally wrenches his gaze away from Laurens. For a second, Burr's heart lurches uneasily in his chest.

"We have to do something," he offers finally, an urging edge to his tone.

"No." Hamilton's response is firm. He doesn't miss a beat.

"We have to. He's not going to protect you - you don't believe that and neither do I." Hamilton flinches, and Burr recognises he has touched a nerve. It's strangely satisfying.

"He's my best friend," Hamilton responds finally, his voice soft. "I can't sign his death warrant - it was bad enough with-"

"Not here," Burr cautions. "You don't have to do anything, remember? I said I would sort it out, and I stand by my promises. At least one of us does." It's a cheap shot, a petty jab, but it seems to work. Hamilton's resolution splinters, and for a second Burr can see raw, open emotion flood into Hamilton's face. A blink and it's gone, but Burr knows he has won.

It should feel more satisfying than it does. But it's relieving, and sometimes that is just as good.

"For Philip," Hamilton agrees after a long pause, a hint of resignation in his voice. "For you."

Burr smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"Let's have breakfast," he offers instead.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If anything is to happen or if Laurens is to react to this new information then it must be immediate.
> 
> After all, two people are dead already, at least.

Laurens needs to get out of the room before he does something stupid. Something like shouting at the assembled breakfast crowd about his best friend’s breakdown into a life of murder.

If he could rewind this morning and not confront Hamilton, would he? He would happily give up the knowledge of Burr’s sleeping arrangements, Laurens knows that.

Physically, he shakes his head trying to dislodge the thought like a horse shaking off flies. The ballroom is getting oppressive as the sun settles into its position for the day, slipping through the wide windows. Abigail wanted to talk about the emancipation act and he was happy to comply but there is no one else here who holds his interest at this juncture whilst his mind is spinning in free-fall. His thoughts are too much for such _pleasant_ company. And it isn’t like he would dare to tell Adams or Jefferson about Hamilton – he respects his word to his friend more than that. But. Hamilton had gone against Washington at Burr’s convincing yes, but it seemed Hamilton had been the one to commit the act. Surely, the breaking of one’s word couldn’t be as bad as that.  

Usually when he feels like this, he talks to Alexander. But Hamilton cannot help him this time. Laurens wishes he could sneak into the tent next door and talk to Lafayette about this, but a letter to France would take far too long. If anything is to happen or if he is to react to this new information then it must be immediate.

After all, two people are dead already, at least.

A sickening sensation runs up from Laurens’ stomach as he realises he didn’t ask about Martha. He makes it to the kitchens, grateful he learned the route, and bends over the sink before his breakfast comes up.

Laurens barely knew his own mother, but his respect for Lady Washington had bordered close to what he assumed most men felt for their mothers. The thought of something happening to her. Of something having happened in this house – at Hamilton’s hand – the thought of Martha’s body laid lifeless like the General’s had been – or dead in a ditch with no ceremony or respect or last rites –

He groans, his stomach spiking painfully as there is nothing else to come up.

“Damn you, Alexander,” he says, slightly breathless.

“Uncle John?” a small voice asks.

Laurens whips around, knocking over a glass and letting it crash and break into the sink. He swears then looks back to the wide eyed boy.

Philip Hamilton is the First Son, the most honoured young man in the nation. He is also barely ten years old and stood next to the kitchen’s small stained wooden table, eating alone.

“Philip, what’s going on?”

Philip shrugs and Laurens would hug him but he probably smells of bile and his hand is almost definitely bleeding from the smashed glass.

“Too many people in there. I’ll go in later. Play the piano,” Philip says it in a small voice, pretending it is normal whilst fully aware it is not. “Pops will like that,” he adds and if there was a part of Laurens’ heart undamaged after this last month then the tone of those four words breaks it. Philip is trying to please his father, already resigned to the fact his efforts will not be noticed, and the familiarity of the whole thing is too much.

Laurens realises that he has to stay here with Hamilton; he gave his word to and this is his best friend who is messing up his own life so he has no choice but to stay and watch the macabre act play out, trying to be there to fix things when they inevitably fall. Philip on the other hand does not need to be here for what could happen. His father’s Presidency protects him for now, but that could be crippled any minute. Holding power is generally more precarious when it was achieved through multiple murders.

“I wrote Pops a poem, but I think he’s too busy to read it. Do you think if I wrote one for Mr Burr too he’d like that more?”

“I bet he’d love that, Phil.” Laurens smiles.

“Uncle John?”

“Yes, Phil?”

“You’re bleeding.”

Laurens smiles tightly. “You’re observant.” The young boy blushes up to his ears, obviously taking it as a mock and tilts his head down, letting his bushy curls cover his face. “I should be more careful,” Laurens says absently, looking down at his reddening fingers. He runs the tap and picks out the pieces of glass that got embedded in his right hand. There are more than he thought, and he tries not to hiss as he pulls out a particularly large shard from his index finger. The glass is bloody and clears as the water hits it, but then the water runs pink, swirling around his hands and down the drain.

Try as he may, he cannot stop his mind imagining Hamilton doing the same thing in his bedroom, cleaning Washington’s blood from his hand. The tap is switched off, he dries his hand, and he practices a smile and turns to Philip.

“All better now.” It is a momentous lie, but Philip does not need to know that. Hopefully, if Laurens is careful, Philip will never need to know what his father has done. There are some people who should not be marred in a boy’s mind and one of them is his father. It is too late for Laurens. And for his own daughter. But Philip still holds out hope that Alexander Hamilton is the best man in all thirteen colonies. And John Laurens will not be the one to dissuade him of that fact.

Laurens’ own daughter, Frances, is a few years older than Philip, nearing fourteen. He received a letter three weeks ago detailing his estranged wife, his dear girl’s death. Sending for Frances had seemed like the sensible decision, bringing her to stay with at least one of her parents now the other had crossed over where she could not reach. Also, Laurens was close friends with the new President, it had all seemed like the perfect way to protect her.

Supposedly, Frances Laurens would be arriving to meet her father for the first time within the next week. Laurens could not allow her to enter this house. And he could not leave Philip here to fend for himself.

Laurens would have to come back himself of course, face the wrath of Burr ready to explode at his plan being derailed – hopefully Hamilton would understand.

Frances and Philip will be safe though and that’s what matters.

If no one else will take them, he can always find Hercules, or – if God willing – perhaps make it to Virginia and get the Madison’s to take them in. James Madison had seemed like a sympathetic man, also a scared one who perhaps suspected something untoward had been going on with Burr and Hamilton before Laurens did.

“Philip,” Laurens says, slowly, already considering the quickest, quietest route out of Burr’s mammoth house. If they take to the forest then there will be cover throughout the day and they should be out by the time night falls. Then they can re-join the roads and intercept Frances’ carriage. “How would you like to do for a ride with me?”

Philip’s face lights up. “Really? Yes, please.”

The boy is starved for attention, and somehow this, more than the imagined image of Martha, makes Laurens want to punch his best friend in the whole world in his perfect face. Perhaps he needs to reorganise his priorities.

For now, he takes Philip’s small hand in his own larger one and smiles down. “How about you pack a little bag? Be quick and quiet though. Let’s make it a game.”

Philip’s eyes widen. “Are we in trouble?” Philip squares his shoulders even as he whispers the words, showing his age and his father’s bravado at once, ready to take on the world. “You can tell me the truth, I’m ten.”

Laurens nods solemnly and bends down, ruffling Philip’s curls causing the boy to frown. “We’re not in any trouble at all, Phil. We’re absolutely fine. Just going out for a ride together. We’ll be home before your Pops knows we’re gone.”

 

* * *

 

Philip is ten years old and a Hamilton and he’s not scared of anything.

But the men arrived so suddenly.

And Uncle John is screaming and shouting and telling him to hide.

It’s dark now and he’s breathing too loudly and he wants to not be here, to be back in the kitchen, or the garden –

Philip jumps off the back of his horse and it runs away quickly. Good, hopefully they won’t catch it and it can get away.

The forest is too thick and Philip didn’t see them coming, and they heard them too late.

Uncle John’s hand is bleeding from earlier still, it hurt him on the way, the reopened cuts, and he can’t hold his sword, and Philip sees when it happens.

Philip hides behind a tree pretending he’s three feet tall and as thin as a stick and praying that they don’t see him, and praying to his mother that she keeps him safe from wherever she is watching down –

And then a woman reaches out a hand to him, and her hair is grey, and she’s covered in dirt, but her smile reminds him of his mom’s. So Philip stifles a sob and then her finger is on her lips, telling him to be silent just like Uncle John had.

So Philip takes her hand and lets her lead him away.

 

* * *

 

 

Burr tries not to think about Laurens as the day stretches into the evening. Ever since Hamilton's frantic confession, the inevitable action had twisted uncomfortably low in Burr's stomach. But it has to be done, after all. It's just the waiting that troubles him.

Hamilton had been even more on edge all day, which is why he had told him as few details as possible. Safer that way. Less chance of Hamilton running his mouth off again, temporarily relieving his conscience to anyone who might listen. Abigail. Jefferson. Philip.

The thought prompts an amused smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

When the soldiers return from their macabre task, they look equally as wild as Hamilton had earlier that morning, and it is disconcerting to realise this. It's a familiar expression that Burr has seen countless times over the years - the abashed, uncomfortable guilt of _something has gone wrong_.

"So?" Burr wastes no time in ascertaining the cause of the problem. He stands stiffly in the centre of the room, Hamilton beside him almost vibrating with anticipation.

The soldiers look nonplussed.

"Laurens," Burr adds impatiently. "What happened?"

The soldiers exchange wary glances.

"He's dead," the first soldier affirms abruptly. "But he was - he knew something was happening. He was running."

"Running?" Hamilton repeats suddenly, his eyes flashing. He sounds hurt. Burr feels another stab of irritation.

"Yeah, they had bags with them-" The second soldier falls suddenly silent, eyes widening. It takes a moment for Burr to recognise the reason behind the shock - Hamilton is quicker.

"They?" His voice is too loud, and Burr wants to tell Hamilton to be quiet, but his voice sticks in the back of his throat. _They_. Who else had been with Laurens? Who else had known?

"I told you to be subtle," Burr says, his voice sharp. "I told you to keep it clean - how did anyone else get involved?"

"It was clean," the second soldier argues with a defensive edge to his voice. "It was only a kid-"

"But we sorted it," the first soldier interjects smoothly. "No loose ends. Subtle. Like you said."

_It was only a kid._

It's suddenly difficult to breathe.

"A kid?" Burr repeats, confusion evident in his voice. Hamilton is silent beside him. Unnaturally so. "Laurens doesn't have a kid-"

"He does," Hamilton supplies, his voice nothing more than a whisper. "A daughter. But - she's still in France, I think."

"It was a boy," one of the soldiers supplies helpfully. Burr can't distinguish between the two of them any more - the walls seem to be closing in.

"Aaron, where's Philip?" Hamilton isn't addressing the soldiers any more - instead, he has turned towards Burr with a new desperation shining in his eyes. He grips Burr's elbow, his fingers digging sharply in. "I haven't seen him all day - I -"

Burr's stomach lurches unpleasantly.

"How old was the kid? Roughly?" It's the only question Burr can manage, for every thought of Philip is sending sickening jolts of panic through his chest. This can't be happening, not again-

"I don't know ages," one of the soldiers says cautiously. "Young, but not too young. Curly hair. That's all I saw."

Hamilton inhales sharply, fingers suddenly slackening against Burr's elbow.

"Get out," Burr says.

"But," one of the soldiers looks to the other slowly. "Our money?" his voice raises, making it a question, as if he's realised something has gone so fundamentally wrong that payment may not still be on the table. The other soldier is just frowning at Burr, impatiently.

At least one of them has an ounce of sense.

"Leave. And stay quiet," Burr snaps.

"Payment first," the second one says, stepping forwards towards them. The solider notices Hamilton's limp stance, his frozen expression and decides he is the easier target so he lurches closer to Hamilton, movement erratic and sudden. Too sudden. Too close.

Burr pulls out his knife and slits the soldier's throat before he can get his hands around Hamilton's.

There is no time for a scream. Perhaps the most horrific thing is how little reaction it elicits from Hamilton. A slightly perturbed, hmm, as if someone stopped walking in front of him; a sound of minor inconvenience as the man's blood spurts out and onto his white shirt.

The other soldier has the good sense not to scream, and the respect to stand to attention. "Sir," he says, saluting Hamilton, not Burr. Good, Burr wants to nod, and thank the man but instead repeats, "Get out," and this time there is no hesitation.

Burr has never known a silence to be so loud.

Well, he has. In the days after Theodosia Jr's death, silence had hollowed out the too large rooms of his house; silence has settled in the corners, like stubborn mould, and echoed noisily around his head and filled every day with a yawning despair. And he hates how it feels now, too familiar. As if he has just been treading water these past months.

Every time he tries to think of Philip, his chest tightens to the point of distraction. That's a relief.

Hamilton is not numb or shell-shocked, like Burr had been, like Burr still is. He's vibrating with barely repressed anger, his face contorted in an ugly expression of anguish. Hands curled into fists, striding from one side of the room to the other in an open display of agitation. He hasn't said two words to Burr since they had been left alone. That, too, is a relief, Burr thinks.

"Alexander," he says finally, his voice low and soft but still cracking the humming silence between them. "Alexander, slow down, let's - let's talk about this, please-"

He doesn't like begging.

He keeps thinking of Theodosia Jr, her small grave and the way he had promised to make her proud when the news of the prophecies had come through. Remembers Philip barrelling into his chest with a wide, easy smile, the way Burr had always felt minutely jealous when he watched Hamilton and Philip from a distance and thought about everything he had lost. He hadn't wanted this - it wasn't meant to happen like this.

Hamilton ignores him, continuing his rhythmic, urgent pacing. Burr can't tear his gaze away from the sight as he stands uselessly at the edge of the room, despite the fact every line of his body is taut with tension.

"Alexander," Burr attempts again, more firmly. The silence seems more precarious now as he steps forward.

"Leave me alone," Hamilton snarls finally, rounding on Burr with a primal ferocity to the movement, ready to lash out. Burr keeps a careful distance. The soldier's blood is still splattered over the front of Hamilton's shirt, and whilst Burr  _knows_ he was the one to murder the soldier, looking at Hamilton now, it's hard to remember. "All of this is your fault, all of it, I never wanted any of this and now Philip-" His sentence is abruptly cut off with a frustrated sob. Burr rocks back on the balls of his heels, torn between moving towards Hamilton and continuing the deliberate distance, rendered frozen and immobile by indecision.

Hamilton wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, the movement clumsy and savage in its intensity.

"You've ruined my life," Hamilton says, his voice cracking. His eyes are gleaming wetly in the light and Burr can't look away. He never can.

"You know as well as I do that this was not meant to happen," Burr says, his voice surprisingly steady. "I never wanted this - you can't _possibly_ think that I'm happy about this-?" The question is incredulous, but it's a struggle to evoke the right sort of emotion. His chest is unbearably tight and it seems to be stifling everything else he might be feeling.

"I wouldn't put anything past you," Hamilton pronounces, his voice too sharp, his body quivering. He looks ready to hit Burr, if he steps too close.

"You don't mean that," Burr replies shortly.

"Don't I?" The laugh that accompanies Hamilton's challenge is highly strung as he steps towards Burr, eliminating the distance between them. "I know you, better than anyone does, remember? I'm the _only_ one who knows you now." The jut of Hamilton's jaw seems to contain a veiled threat, but as soon as Burr notes it, he can already see the cracks in the performance. If he wanted to, he could reach out and ease the sharp tension in Hamilton's shoulders, he knows he could-

"It's your fault Philip is dead," Hamilton adds suddenly, "It's because you wanted Washington dead and then you wanted John dead and I never wanted any of this, not really - and just because your daughter died doesn't mean you get to decide what happens to Philip either and yet-" He cuts himself off abruptly, as if he regrets what he has just said. It would be a first, Burr thinks wryly, but the thought comes as if from very far away, a distant echo.

"I didn't mean that." Hamilton looks more wretched than ever, wild and frayed at the seams, a manic gleam in his eyes.

Burr silences him, silences his own rushing thoughts, as he closes the gap between the two of them in a long, bruising kiss. His hands grip too tight in the folds of Hamilton's shirt as the other man reciprocates after a long, surprised pause, opening his mouth pliantly against Burr's. Then Hamilton's fingers dig into his waist, urging him on. He bites down hard on Hamilton's lower lip, enough to elicit a surprised exhale from the other man, before he pulls back.

He is breathing very heavily. The tightness in his chest has not disappeared, but has abated slightly with the sharp bite of Hamilton's nails, and despite the fact Hamilton is regarding him with a flinty edge to his gaze, he wants to follow the sensation, wants to capture and bottle it until he never feels like he's drowning again. The jarring smear of blood across Hamilton's front is strangely enticing.

"We really messed up," Hamilton whispers in the space between Burr's last, hasty decision, and the one he is about to make.

What can he say to that?

He doesn't say anything.

Hamilton is just as eager for the distraction, if characteristically teasing. Burr can feel the tremble in Hamilton's hands as they press against Burr's skin, sliding underneath the material of his long shirt in a desperate attempt to reassure each other they are still alive, even if no-one else is. Burr can feel the erratic rhythm of Hamilton's pulse, mixed with the insistent thud of his own heartbeat in his eardrums; he prints every hitch of Hamilton's breath to memory and uses it to guide his movements as he unbuttons Hamilton's breeches, Hamilton's teeth dragging against the sharp jut of his collarbone. If he listens to the shuddering in and out of Hamilton's breathing, he doesn't have to think about anything outside of this room.

And that, more than anything, is a relief.

Hamilton's fingers are bold as they quickly press against Burr's cock, strangely reverent for a second before moving with purpose. Burr tangles his fingers in Hamilton's hair and pulls tightly whenever Hamilton's fingers linger too long. Tries not to think about how Hamilton breathes out _I don't know what to do_ into the hollow of his neck.

"I hate you, too, you know," Burr says in response, the words ugly out in the open. Hamilton visibly flinches but Burr repeats the three words anyway, for seeing the emotion flicker across Hamilton's face even in the heat of arousal seems to make up for the fact he can't feel anything at all. "I hate you, I hate this, I hate everything that's happened since you came back." He doesn't mean it, of course he doesn't, but they are the only words that surge to the forefront of his mind as he runs his hands, slick with his spit, down his own cock - the only words that continue to simmer just below his skin as he pushes into Hamilton, sparks skittering in his hips as the sudden sensation.

The sound that Hamilton makes is desperate and fractured, his hands balling in the sheets. All Burr can see is the languid slope of his back, the littering of mostly faded scars from the war and the taut tension in the lines of his body; he holds Hamilton's hips to steady him as he drags out and then pushes back into him harshly, slowing his pace deliberately.

"You don't hate me," Hamilton says finally, his voice ragged as he directs Burr's hands away from his hips, guiding them towards his cock. Burr obligingly wraps a hand around it as he pushes deeper into Hamilton, his breath ghosting over Hamilton's shoulder. "I don't have anyone now but you." The declaration is splintered by a shuddering exhale but it's strangely vulnerable nonetheless.

It echoes noisily in Burr's heads as he comes, pressing his forehead against the warmth of Hamilton's bare skin.

_I don't have anyone now but you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're really (not) sorry


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the white noise of his orgasm things had seemed simpler, but now the room seems on the verge of collapsing inwards. 
> 
> (aka Body Count: 4, Ghost Count: 2)

Everything is quiet again.

For a few blessed moments, Burr's brain had been wiped clean of every unholy revelation that had infected the room. In the white noise of his orgasm things had seemed simpler, Hamilton hot against him, breathing in tandem - as if everything was starting to twine together, to make sense.

But now, as he buttons his breeches and tries not to stare at Hamilton, the room seems on the verge of collapsing inwards. The walls are suddenly not as far apart as they used to be and his chest is tightening as he spots the too bright smear of blood on Hamilton's shirt.

The soldier means nothing to him - he's glad he's dead. The thought is savage but nevertheless true. But he's in their room, his blood is caught beneath Bur's fingernails and pressed against Hamilton's rumpled shirt; he's everywhere and the scent of death is hanging in the air between him and Hamilton. When Burr glances down at the open, glassy stare of the soldier, eyes half-lidded and glinting emptily in the light, his stomach lurches.

"We need to get rid of h- of it," Burr suggests, his voice splitting the seams of the silence down the middle. He straightens his shirt with hands that only slightly tremble, pressing the creases out with his too-heavy palms.

Hamilton is silent. In fact, hasn't moved apart from straightening up and idly dressing himself. The sight alone is unnerving Burr, for it made more sense when Hamilton was frantically pacing, jaw tightened, taut with barely repressed shock. But now-

"Alexander," Burr says again gently. His own shell-shocked grief seems to have hardened into something he can push to the back of his mind, as if Hamilton's uncharacteristic stillness has bolstered Burr's resolve. "We need to clear this away, come, we haven't got long-"

He is interrupted by a sharp knock on the door; the sound echoes through his ear drums and makes him flinch, almost violently, nearly losing his collected calmness. Hamilton doesn't respond. Automatically, Burr straightens his shirt again before moving towards the door with a swiftness that doesn't match the slow, crawling pace of his thoughts. When he pulls the door open, it is only to allow himself a gap wide enough to squeeze through, before he shuts Hamilton and the corpse away behind him leaving them to their mirroring silences.

It is Abigail Adams - unsurprisingly with Jefferson just behind her, looking rattled and ready for a fight.

"Mr Burr," Abigail says with a tight smile, her glance lingering too long on the door to Burr's back. He wonders what John Laurens had said to her; wonders if she knows, if she has come to blackmail or accuse or arrest him.

"Mrs Adams," Burr says in response, his voice surprisingly steady, his smile even more surprisingly unwavering.

"Will you be ready to vote in half an hour?" Abigail asks, getting straight to the point. She raises an eyebrow enquiringly and - although, surely he can't realise he's doing it - Jefferson does the same behind her, a hint of a smile at his lips. As if he can't wait to pull Hamilton apart.

Burr supposes Hamilton might be an easier target now.

"The President's postponing the vote," Burr says shortly, before correcting himself in a hasty attempt to display politeness. "Until after dinner, at least. Not everyone is present."

He thinks of John Laurens, sprawled out unceremoniously in a ditch. He thinks of Philip - and for a moment his sight goes blurry.

"Tell Hamilton - sorry, _President_ Hamilton - he can't hide forever," Jefferson says, a languid smile curving his lips. "I won't let this act go through -"

"We still have some questions to be answered," Abigail amends, shooting Jefferson a characteristically exasperated glance. "But something this important shouldn't be rushed." She sends another curious glance at the door, and looks as if she might say something more.

"Is there anything else, Mrs Adams?" Burr asks finally, his voice taut. He wonders what Hamilton is doing in the room; if he will ever move again. There's still blood underneath Burr's fingernails, he realises with horror, examining his palms before hurriedly glancing at Abigail again, hands shoved into his pockets.

"Nothing at all, Mr Burr," Abigail cedes, offering him a bladed smile that sharpens her eyes.

Burr nods stiffly, and watches her and Jefferson retreat for a long while before he returns to the room, to the scene of the crime, to the cover up.

 

* * *

 

 

The meeting of congress and the convention start late.

The vote will be postponed until the next morning if they can't reach a unanimous decision within the hour.

Thomas Jefferson is arguing vehemently against the statism of emancipation and how it is unfair to rob citizens of legally bought poverty. Racist to the south apparently. Discriminatory to the farmers. And - he audaciously adds - inconvenient for all involved really.

Apparently the truth of all people's equality is one Jefferson holds to be self-evident only to the extent it is convenient to him.

Hamilton tells him as much and Jefferson jumps up out of his seat and starts to stride across the floor before Burr stands and intercedes for peace.

Each person says their piece, not all announcing their position now, but it is more hopeful than Hamilton had originally worried. Abigail Adams questions Burr mercilessly, and Hamilton starts to see – despite the ferocity of her words, Hamilton realises she is not speaking against the bill. Jefferson’s hands tighten on the table.

Everyone who wants to steal a slice of their new nation is here tonight, around this table. John Laurens is barely noticed to be missing.

After Jefferson’s speech, Burr had done one of the most remarkable things and actually started. Burr is far calmer than Hamilton would be, and he is grateful it is his other half who Abigail is searching for loop holes and testing on the bill’s language, as he might have snapped by now and lost her support. For more than the majority of the men in the room, Abigail Adams knows what she is talking about and is passionate about what she believes.

Finally, she nods at Burr and _thanks_ him.

“We do not agree on many things,” she says – and she’s turned to Hamilton now, and he forces himself to nod for it is undeniably true, “but this,” her hand splays out across the pages in front of her, trying to cover all the inky words of possible promises that Hamilton doesn’t know if they can achieve even if the act passes. “This is something on which we cannot afford to disagree. We will never be free until we end this degradation of human life.”

There is muffled applause from two quarters of the room, a tight smile from Burr, and Hamilton’s voice is caught in his throat by the memory of someone else saying similar words.

It is Hamilton’s time to speak. The President should stand now, and the appropriate respect should be shown, and then the President is supposed to speak from in front of his chair – as if he were a king barely deigning to leave his throne. Hamilton saw the General do as much. The move stinks of royalty and disloyalty. The power of being President is also the power to change things, and Hamilton will not stand in a dead man’s shoes whilst calling to save lives. Hypocrisy is the killer of certainty for a person with any sense of morals – and Hamilton needs to sound certain here if he is to convince this room not only of the act, but also of his own right to stand as President.

It is hard to stand tall when he feels like he’s fallen apart at the seams, and only a full quick adjustments and pins from Burr are holding him together; surely the gathered assembly can see he is nothing more than rags clinging onto a broken dressmaker’s model? Letting Laurens go unpicked the careful sewn lines of his success, and then the news of _Philip_ ripped him down the seams so he was fully exposed to Burr and the soldiers. Hamilton is glad the soldier is dead, and hope Burr kills the other one too, simply so no one will live who saw him so vulnerable. Burr saw, but Burr had put too much time and effort into him to abandon him when he fell apart. So Burr comforted him in the only way he knows how.

Hamilton knows he’s too difficult to fix, but the material he was made from had been adorned with diamonds that they can’t get off now, even if the material beneath was cheap, so they pin him vaguely back together: but now he has been put on show, unfinished, and embarrassing for the dressmaker surely, to see something that should have been impressive stand so limp.

Burr must be disgusted with him.

The one thing Hamilton still has that has not been fallen from him is his words. He can’t bring Washington back, or Laurens, or Philip. But he can talk

So Hamilton steps out from in front of the President’s seat, moves behind it and then starts to pace around the room as he slips into the pattern of what he is best at.

“Ladies and Gentleman, I’m curious what you think – bear with me – are you aware that this act would make history? We have the chance to be ahead of the tide – to be the ones history looks on favourably.”

Hamilton walks behind Jefferson and doesn’t deign to look at the man’s smarmy face. Enough people have died: men like Jefferson should be proud they are still alive when better men and children lay dead.

“We are a nation of states built on the universal truth of freedom for all men. And women,” he says, looking at the few women in the assembled company: Abigail’s pursed lips and Reynolds’ wife’s vermillion smile. “When we declared this, we did not distinguish between skin colour, race, or creed – as the Bible taught us, we see peoples equally and should respect them as equals. The Bible teaches us that God made from _one man_ every nation of mankind to live on all the face of the earth _equally_.”

Hamilton takes a deep breath. The air in the room has changed. Burr’s face is a taut, pulled tight smile like a tense string about to snap. Jefferson is the smouldering kindling already well on its way to flames, about to explode. Hamilton has gone too far.

An onslaught of memories hits him of nights in Fraunces Tavern, of shared moments in the dark in tents, of endless essays against slavery, of his son’s smile and surety that his father will always do the right thing. And Laurens’ voice saying:

“These people who we enslave are unjustly deprived of the rights of mankind,” Hamilton is speaking his friend’s words, and looking up at the ceiling, refusing to face them. He has not yet gone far enough. Laurens would go farther and say more, say: “The fault is ours. We have sunk these people below the standard of humanity and if we continue to willingly do so, we damn ourselves.”

Hamilton looks down away from the angel painted ceiling and tries to not notice any of the faces in the crowd.

For the first time since he stuck the knife into Washington’s back, he is proud of something he has done. He strides back to the top of the table and stops short when he sees someone in his chair.

“Hamilton,” Burr hisses from close to his left side but Hamilton’s eyes are frozen on the man in his place, come like a thief in the night to steal his breath and his façade of innocence. The blood is still on the other man’s shirt as Hamilton had imagined it would be, and he turns to Hamilton with hollow accusing eyes.

“Oh,” Hamilton says, staring at John Laurens.

 

* * *

 

 

This is not how Burr had imagined the evening's debate would go.

Hamilton is frozen, halfway between his seat and the middle of the room, looking suddenly uncertain of his own seating arrangements. He had been talking and then had abruptly cut off his own sentence to stand and stare and silently gape, before a dumbfounded _Oh_ had punctured the quiet hush, and Burr can feel an uneasy itching just below his skin at the situation. _This isn't right_ he thinks, helplessly, _something's not right about this_. But what?

"Alexander," he says finally, realising that everyone else in the room seems to be struck dumb with uncertainty over the unusual event. "Please don't think about speaking for another three hours - I think you managed to get your point across succinctly enough." His jest raises a couple of fond laughs scattered around the room. Hamilton stiffens for a second and then relaxes, turning to Burr as if it is instinct.

"Sorry, just, for a minute there-" He cuts himself off again but this time it is to shrug and smile at the room. Burr's breath hitches in his chest at the sight, although he is not sure whether it is relief at Hamilton's concession or something else, the sublime slant of Hamilton's profile, the way the smile seems so natural and yet so obviously false at the same time.

"Anyway," Hamilton starts again confidently, turning away from Burr, "Is there anyone else that -" Again his voice breaks, the sound jarring and ugly in the air as his sentence bleeds out into silence. Hamilton had started to move towards the chair only to rock back violently on his feet, as if scalded.

"Mr President?" The voice is Nathaneal Greene's, who had stood up when Hamilton had jerkily backed away from the chair, obvious concern on his face. "Is everything alright?"

"It's fine, Mr Greene, do not trouble yourself," Burr interjects, although Hamilton's erratic behaviour is more troubling than he would care to admit. He can't remember much of the first week after Theo Jr's death - it had all been a haze - he wonders if it is like that for Hamilton now, standing there frozen.

Then Hamilton speaks again, although it is not to anyone in attendance.

"John, I'm sorry, don't look at me like that-" His voice is ragged and raw with emotion as he stumbles, attempting to reach the chair and nearly colliding with the edge of the table. Greene reaches out to him but Hamilton swats his hand away, eyes fixed on the chair, as if it is the only thing in existence and nothing else is real.

"John Laurens?" Greene asks.

"Colonel Laurens is not here, Mr President," Henry Knox offers uncertainly, his face creased with obvious confusion.

"The President is clearly confused," Burr says hastily, fear gripping his chest. "But I fear we will only embarrass him if he realises we are watching him. Return to the discussion at hand - I am certain he will come to himself in no time." He rises just as Greene sits, moving around the table towards Hamilton and reaching out very slowly to press his fingertips to the inside of Hamilton's arm. The other man jerks away, and then stills, the tension fading out of him as Burr presses harder.

"Sorry, sorry," Hamilton says finally, spinning around with a harried edge to address the room once more. Burr can see James Reynolds exchange a derisive glance with his wife; remembers how scornfully the man had talked of Hamilton's presidency. His fingers dig too hard into Hamilton's elbow. "I - momentarily forgot myself. What were we saying?"

Hamilton glances around distractedly, a constant, flickering smile on his face.

 

* * *

 

 

“What were we saying?”

 _Someone answer me, damn you._ If people keep speaking then maybe he can stay in the moment and pretend the apparition was just a momentary lapse of judgement.

“You were talking emphatically,” Abigail says, staring at him a little worriedly, with an edge of something that could be fear.

Hamilton is not afraid of ghosts. He knows superstitions, he was raised surrounded by different ideas and beliefs – seeing a representative of someone whose death you were responsible for is not a completely unheard of idea. But John – the man who had been in his chair – he had seemed too real, and equally he could not have been Laurens no matter how perfect a resemblance he bore to him. Laurens would never look at Hamilton so emptily and judgingly.

It is wrong for Abigail Adams to speak if Hamilton is still standing. That accounts for her uncertainty. Burr flaunts this rule and ignores it as he does many of the issues of pomp and ceremony and no one questions it. Burr’s gaze pierces him and compels him to sit back down.

He turns around and the seat is bloodstained – the upholstery is darkened by the still running blood and the wooden arms of the chair have little pools of blood on the end of them.

Hamilton holds his breath to will the sight away and for a second the room is blessedly silent. Until a dripping behind him. The faintest of sounds, then a quiet squelch, like a boot connecting with a thin layer of fresh mud.

When he turns, unable to make himself pray, knowing no answer he wants to hear could come to him know, he sees that the sound was made from the child’s shoe stepping in the pool of blood gathered around the boy’s walking boots on the floor.

How silly of them all to not have noticed the blood – to not have cleaned it earlier. “We missed a spot,” he laughs painfully, his throat burning.

The little boy is his son. But, and another harsh, raking laugh is drawn from his throat against his will, it cannot be his son, because Philip would never look at him like that.

Philip looks at him like he hung the moon and wove his mother out of words and stories especially for him to hold her perfect in his fragile young memory. Philip does not look at him as if he can see right through the hollowness of him to the growing disease within his mind.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he begs. “Don’t look at me. You’re not him. You’re not my son – Philip is,” Hamilton steps back into his own chair, nearly knocking it over. “Philip is – ”

The boy wearing Philip as a second skin does not react and Hamilton turns away to be met by the angered, bloodied face of John Laurens – still there by Hamilton’s side like he always said he would be.

“I knew you wouldn’t leave me,” Hamilton whispers. “I knew neither of you would go.”

 _I knew you wouldn’t leave me alone_.

 

* * *

 

 

Hamilton is lurching away from his chair, staring with sharp focus at an empty space in the middle of the room; and Burr had been abruptly pushed aside as Hamilton's seeming delusions had taken over. He's standing there now, glancing carefully from Hamilton's feverish, glowing eyes to the appalled faces watching the two of them. _Oh no oh no oh no oh no._ These are the only thoughts currently making their way through Burr's mind.

Oh no.

"Mr President," Burr says, his voice too loud; it seems to jolt some of the onlookers into something more than quiet horror. "Alexander, pull yourself together, you're talking nonsense."

Hamilton isn't talking nonsense - both of them know it. Still, as Hamilton turns, his eyes skating disinterestedly over Burr to return with reliable intensity to his chair, Burr realises that something once existing between him and Hamilton seems to have disintegrated. Seems to have died, along with Philip.

"He's clearly unwell," Jefferson offers, looking far less interested about Hamilton's performance than the rest of the onlookers, although even his brows are knitted together in disdainful concern. "Clearly not able to lead a vote on this matter - so perhaps we should look to someone else who can take over proceedings?"

"Now is not the time," Abigail says warningly, turning her face to share a private expression with Jefferson. Burr feels sudden, cold panic seeping into his skin.

"Alexander," he hisses, striding over to where Hamilton is stood looking dazed, his eyes empty and fogged over. When he reaches out to touch Hamilton this time, the other man visibly recoils, glancing around as if he can't tell where the sensation has come from.

Then he looks at Burr, and seems to see him for the first time.

"Burr, Aaron, I - you can see them too right?" His voice is a deliberate whisper as he staggers towards Burr, pressing a hand against Burr's chest to steady himself. It's too open, too many people are watching, and yet Burr can do nothing but hold Hamilton by the arms and keep him upright.

"There is no-one here," Burr says softly, before raising his voice, so that everyone can hear. "It's just the heat of the room, I'm sure, that has confused you somewhat -"

"I'm not confused." Hamilton's voice is too loud as he pulls himself away from Burr, turning around and letting out a sudden sob at an unknown image. "I - I, please leave me alone, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm sorry I never meant to-"

"Perhaps everyone should leave?" Burr asks, turning to the room with a helpless sort of desperation to his voice.

 

* * *

 

 

Burr is doing damage control as only he can, with a perfect smile and a simpering sympathy for the gather audience’s lost evening.

Hamilton wants to ask again if Aaron can see the two of them, but something in the frantic energy behind Burr’s eyes lets him know the answer.

Perhaps people stand up and leave, or perhaps he is merely imagining it. He sees Abigail Adams take a step towards him and Jefferson usher her away – they are the first two to leave the room, and something in Jefferson’s posture, how he avoided Hamilton’s gaze rather than offering a sneer, tells Hamilton that the two of them will not be back.

“Maybe they saw them,” he whispers.

“Alexander no – ” someone – Burr? – says, but he can’t pay it any heed because a small hand has found his and fingers are closing around his large ones.

Philip’s hand is cold, but Hamilton can feel it and that can’t be right, ghosts can’t be felt, can’t be corporal or real. “Are you really here before me? Or are you just a fragment of my broken mind?”

The boy – Philip – his son, who he had killed, says nothing and Hamilton wants to scream.

The remaining guests gasp and a few of them duck, many turning around but an equal number rushing to the doors even quicker, desperate to get away – from the apparitions probably. Hamilton supposes that seeing Laurens’ bloodied corpse reanimated in the President’s chair and the bleeding boy would be enough to terrify anyone.

It has terrified him.

Only when he realises that Philip’s hand is gone from his and it is Burr’s – Burr with his face slightly damp in front of him, running his hand softly through Hamilton’s hair – that Hamilton understands he has been screaming.

“I just want them gone,” he sobs, hating himself for admitting it. “I want this to be over.”

“It’s okay,” Burr says, and now they are kneeling and Hamilton wonders when they got to the floor. “It’s all going to be okay,” Burr promises him. But Burr has lied before.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton gets another set of prophecies. Burr sees his dead daughter. Everyone's grasp on sanity is slipping.
> 
> Aka. Everyone is fine. F i n e

From a young age, Hamilton learned not to rely on the kindness of others. Never can you truly know what was inside someone else’s mind or what their intentions might be. Any insecurities you give them can ultimately be used against you—especially if it’s something secret, volatile, dangerous. The first time he felts comfortable enough with someone to reveal anything significant about his past was with Laurens, then next with Eliza. It wasn’t until he had Philip that he realised what it felt like to be on the receiving end—to truly want someone to put all of their trust in you.

Hamilton wants—wanted—Philip to rely on him for everything and to never feel the need for secrets.

After the dinner, Burr wants to know what happened, obviously. He wants to probe and examine it whatever the hell just happened. He doesn’t say as much, but it’s clear in his veiled false concern that he thinks Hamilton’s mind is slipping out onto the floor and running away from him for anyone to see. That once again Hamilton is going to ruin everything.

Words are his forte, but Hamilton doesn’t know how to describe the icy judgement in Laurens’ eyes or the terrifying beckoning of Philip. If Burr hadn’t broken him away from them, maybe Hamilton would have taken Philip’s hand and followed him and Laurens to—wherever they were now.

Or, the other place. Seemed more likely at this juncture.

He slips out later that night when Burr is asleep and leaves the house. He tries to imitate how the spectre of his son had moved, unseen and silently across the ballroom floor. The air is crisp when he gets outside and he’s glad he did not wear a coat so he can feel the chill as it sinks into his bones. His feet lead him towards the forest without prompting. Somewhere in the mess of green and brown Philip’s body is probably still there. Perhaps they laid him and Laurens side by side near the flowers in the clearing. Perhaps they hid it in the undergrowth or rolled it into the lake or left it at the edge of the swamp for the rising mud and the insects to get it.

Hamilton remembers the spurt of blood as the soldier died, the feeling of it hitting the exposed top of his neck, and his breathing steadies. The memory quells his imaginings. It’s reassuring to know that it was the blood of the man who spilt his son’s blood.

It’s been a long time since he received the initial prophecies and they are fading from his mind and his resolve. It was easier to believe an apparition of his wife appeared and instructed him in what would be when Laurens was there to collaborate the story. Now he has lost his only living link to the prophecies.

He needs to see the witches again. He needs to hear that this was what they intended and it will all be worth it. He needs them to remind him why he’s done this.

The original heath where he and Laurens saw them is too far to journey to, but he can emulate it; the woods are overgrown and there is a barren clearing stretching out into the hills to the west that resembles the place, hidden from any potential voyeurs.

“I’m here,” he declares as he reaches it. He forces his voice to be louder than the wind, “show yourselves, you apparitions. I’ve heard your words before and I will hear them again.”

There is no response. The wind quiets into a contemplative hum, but that could as easily be his imagination. According to Burr he’s losing his mind. Maybe none of this is real.

“My husband says I’m losing my mind,” he tells the wind, “he thinks you’ve driven me mad.” There’s a tinkle as the water in the stream laughs at him. “Answer me!” he yells. “I'm your President and you will answer me.”

“We do not answer to the calls of men,” an authoritative voice says.

Hamilton pivots and comes face-to-face with Martha Washington.

“Martha,” he gasps. “No, no, I’m sorry, I’m—”

Martha frowns, her dark eyebrows furrowing. She looks younger than when he last saw her on that fateful night. Her hair is still speckled with grey, contrasting like shinning silver thread with her skin. She looks like an avenging angel. Hamilton sinks to his knees and clasps his hands before him.

“I didn’t want to do it,” he tries to whisper the words but the clearing echoes them back. “Burr made me—”

“Claim your own actions,” a second voice says. This one is harder to place, harder to accept even than the ghostly figure of the First Lady. It’s the lilting accent, the rolling of the vowels and the catch on the edge of the consonants: the sound of hope.

“Mamá?”

His mother walks so she is next to Martha and looks down at him sternly. “What is done is done. Do not forget it.”

“I won’t,” he promises. “I won’t forget again.”

“We knew we would meet again,” a third voice says from behind him. This one Hamilton is ready for. He slowly climbs from his knees as he turns to see his Betsey standing behind him. She is wearing the dress from the first night they met and she looks younger than she ever did in life. He quickly stands, noticing his parody of an engagement, leaning on one knee before her.

“Betsey, I—I—” her stare freezes whatever consolatory words he was about to offer her. He had called Burr his husband, he realises suddenly, and irrationally feels the need to apologise. Instead he diverts his guilt by talking: proving once again that he could never have been good enough for Eliza. He never deserved the love that any of these women bestowed on him. “Tell me it’s all been worth it,” he says, “your words from last time seemed impossible and yet they came to pass and I saw the truth of them. You can see the truth of them now as I stand here before you as President already! I did what you asked,” he realises the last part is a lie only as it passes his lips. The prophecies said the things would happen not how or when. “I did what you asked,” he repeats quieter. “Please give me some warning, some reason to—continue. I’ve lost too much. Washington,” he looks to Martha, the ghostly version of the woman is as strong willed as her real counterpart and does not react; he looks to his mother and wishes she were real, “I lost my closest friend—my Laurens, and our son,” he looks at Eliza last as he admits it, “I lost our Philip.”

“Lost,” his mother says, echoing the word, almost questioning it.

He will not correct it. But she told him to claim his actions—“Killed,” he says. “I killed them.”

All three women—or whatever they may be—let out a hiss of a breath at the same time, then Martha steps forwards instantly.

“I can’t lose what I’ve gained after everything it cost,” he reasons. She does not react but after a moment of silence speaks:

“Beware Jefferson; beware the Secretary of State.”

Hamilton takes a step back. “Jefferson? Will he steal the Presidency? He left…he…he cannot foil me at this point.”

His mother steps forwards and he remembers summers of infinite heat and then another harsher heat of the fever running through them and stealing her away from him. Her voice was ruined at the end, a whisper of what it could be, but when she speaks now the wind falls silent for her and every word is clear. “Only one who truly loves you will be able to kill you now.” 

Eliza starts speaking before he can ask what she means. He turns around and meets her intense gaze.

“Be proud and take no care who counters you or speaks against you. Until all of Congress votes against you alone, no harm shall come to you.”

He sucks in a deep breath. “Betsey,” he whispers, “thank you. Thank you all,” he turns to see Martha to see if there is judgement there, and to see his mother’s face again to not look away from it every again perhaps—

—But they are gone. And Eliza is nothing but a rush of blue silk disappearing in the darkness and a whiff of familiar perfume on the wind. The clearing is empty except for him and the only proof remaining that the women were ever there is inside his mind.

 

* * *

 

An hour later the sun breaks through the bottom of their curtains and Burr stirs, Hamilton fakes awaking and rises slowly, languishing in his yawn. Burr squeezes his hand in an imitation of intimacy and Hamilton tries to accept it without allowing himself to believe it.

The vote on the Emancipation Act goes ahead that morning. Abigail Adams and Thomas Jefferson are not in attendance. The bill passes before they even break for lunch.

Burr offers him a shaky secret smile from the seat next to him. Hamilton returns it as a full blown grin. Of course the bill was going to pass, but Burr couldn’t have known that. For the first time since that initial morning Hamilton thanks the witches for coming into his life. Having future knowledge helps him know that this will all work out, that it will be worth it, and that he cannot be stopped now.

The witches’ first prophecies led to him losing everyone who loved him. Their second set explained why. He’s safe now to make a real difference, help people, and be remembered.

He’s got everything he ever wanted, and lost everyone who ever wanted it for him.

It’s not a fair trade by any means, but it’s the only one he deserves.

 

* * *

 

Hamilton is losing it.

Burr has become steadily convinced of this fact over the past day or so. Ever since the débâcle at the meeting the night before - where Hamilton had staggered around the room talking incoherently to nobody in particular and threatening to divulge their guilt with every other word - a panic had seeped into Burr's chest that wouldn't let go. Now it makes itself present in the bottom of his lungs every time he tries to exhale, hitching painfully in his chest. Reminding him of how close they are to losing everything. Again.

He's lost everything once before, and what he has with Hamilton is different but still nice, in a way. Life with Hamilton is different from life with Theodosia. It is always split right through with an aching wistfulness; but putting that aside, his entire life is now crafted around Hamilton in a way. Their shared life. Their shared future.

The morning dawns light and weak, and as soon as Burr wakes he remembers last night - but the morning proceeds in the strangest of ways. Jefferson and Abigail Adams had seemingly left the night before (not that Burr is surprised after the spectacle they witnessed) and, with the path clear, Hamilton's vote goes through without hesitation. And Hamilton himself is different, as if he has shaken off the ghosts who walked alongside him the night before. His smile is too wide and dazzling and Burr can't look at him for very long because it hurts, but in a good way. The situation was stretched taut and thin the night before, but with the morning it has relaxed once again.

Burr isn't sure his nerves can handle the undulations.

Already, he and Hamilton had moved into the room that once used to be his and Theodosia's, and every night they spend in the room seems like a betrayal of another life. It would seem odd for them to be staying in the room where Washington was murdered, and surely it will do nothing for Hamilton's state of mind - but still. But still. He finds himself apologising mentally every time Hamilton crawls into bed beside him, trying to recapture the memory of Theodosia's warm body against his, the soft tickle of her hair and the gentle reassurance of her hands.

Hamilton has disappeared somewhere over lunch, and Burr had attempted to find him amidst the teeming crowds of delegates still present in the house only to quickly abandon the effort. He's tired and he is beginning to hate this house and, although he recognises everything has worked out the way he had envisaged all those weeks ago, the success seems bitterer than he had presumed. So he stills in the gardens, too near to where Hamilton murdered Adams, gazing for a long time at the dark undergrowth in the weak sunlight. He's not really seeing the flowers, but the quiet is enough.

There's a crack of twigs behind him, but when Burr glances around hurriedly, he is still alone.

"Perhaps I will start seeing ghosts as well," he comments idly to himself, and he smiles even if it isn't very funny. "God forbid John Laurens attempts to visit me, however, for I am sure I will give him short shrift."

The mention of Laurens only brings uncomfortable memories of Philip however and Burr's stomach lurches sickeningly at the recollection. The blood on his hands, that had sprayed over Hamilton's shirt; it was everywhere and the scent of death had lingered in the room and it is still there undoubtedly, tainting every corner with reminders of what he had done. He had only killed the soldier but Hamilton's accusing, empty stare had sunk into the back of his mind, until it seems as if Hamilton is always watching him, unwavering and angry.

"I never meant to," he mutters, uncharacteristically defensive, as he examines the tip of his umbrella with unseeing eyes. "This wasn't what I wanted-" His sentence cuts off in an exasperated huff as he turns around, ready to recommence his wandering of the house in search of Hamilton.

For a second, he thinks someone might be in the bushes - a common sight, or at least it had been where Theodosia Jr had still lived. She would wind her way through the bushes and challenge him to find her, standing stock still and holding her breath to not betray her location. He would track for hours through the gardens in this pretend search for her.

For a moment, it seems as if the past year has faded into non-existence.

 _I wonder where Theo can possibly be_ he would jest as he walked around, his footsteps purposely loud against the crunch of the leaves. _It seems she has left me all alone._

 _I never would_ sometimes Theo would pronounce urgently, as if worried he might believe in her abandonment, revealing herself from her hiding place. Other times she would force herself to remain quiet, but he could always hear her, the involuntary movement that seemed to urge her towards revelation.

_I suppose you will just have to stay here with me forever, Theo._

_That's fine. I like it here. I like this. What else is there?_

_There's so much else out there, Theodosia, especially for somebody like you. With your genius I am sure you will go much farther than this muddy little garden._

_Then you'll have to come with me!_

_Perhaps I will._

_Not perhaps. Promise me you will. You never break your promises._

He can't find her in the garden, so she must have picked an impressive hiding place. She's always been clever, like him in a manner but improved in every way, with the polished refinement of her mother and the sharp wit to match. There's mud on his knees, dirt dusted over his umbrella, but he can get them cleaned when he goes back up to the house for the evening.

"Mr Burr." The voice seems to come from far away, and for a second Burr ignores the intrusion - the sun is beginning to snake its way down the horizon and he knows Theo is waiting for him somewhere in the maze of gardens, tucked away and stifling her laughter as she watches him walk around looking for her. Then there's a hand on his shoulder and he turns around too fast, instinctively grasping at his umbrella, breath stuttering painfully in his chest.

For a second he doesn't recognise the man - then, as his chest eases, he blinks and realises it is James Reynolds. He's good at names and faces, has always had an impressive ability to recognise people even if they do not know him in return. And he knows Reynolds, although he cannot say why.

"I didn't think you and Hamilton were so alike," Reynolds says with a quirked brow, a suppressed humour in the lines of his mouth. Speaking nonsense, unsurprisingly. Burr doesn't have time for this-

"I'm a little preoccupied, if you don't mind Mr Reynolds," he manages to say finally, the words stiff and stilted. It seems strange to speak in the hush of the gardens, and his voice is rough, as if to accentuate the foreign sound. "So, if you have something to talk about, I'd appreciate it if you did so rather than talk in nonsense."

"Do you make it a habit to talk to yourself?" Reynolds asks, although Burr brushes it off with an irritated scowl. He's mixing him up for Hamilton, of course he is, why would Burr be surprised about that? Hamilton is the President, the one who has benefited from this entire charade of a plan, _Burr's_ plan. He's the one everyone knows, even when Washington was still alive.

It's only when this heated realisation comes that Burr realises, with sudden clarity, that Theodosia Jr is dead.

He had known that all along, of course.

"I think you're mistaking me for Mr Hamilton," he suggests, grip tightening around his umbrella until his fingers feel stiff and painful to unfold. "But I am equally certain you would give him the benefit of the doubt - the Presidency is a stressful position and last night was-"

"I'm talking about you," Reynolds interrupts rudely, smiling all the while. He's still too close to Burr, who can feel his presence like vibrating electricity, too close, too close. "Just now. You were muttering so I don't know what you were saying - perhaps one day Maria and I can look forward to a shared madness of our own."

"I'm not mad," Burr says slowly, every word feeling too weighty in his mouth. "An unjustified accusation like that is dangerous and unnecessary."

"An insane President is the biggest danger," Reynolds counters, folding his arms across his chest. "I've seen it, the way he is - and now looking at you, you're both the same. Not fit to occupy President Washington's shoes, some might suggest."

Burr takes in a long, rattling breath.

"Washington was a joke," he offers dismissively. From behind Reynolds, he can see a figure approaching, cloaked in the darkness, and he knows it is Theodosia Jr, it must be, he can almost hear the rustle of her dresses and the eagerness of her footsteps as she nears him. _It seems she has left me all alone - I never would!_

"That's the most dangerous thing either of us have said," Reynolds says languidly, stepping back from Burr. Just the right distance. Still close. Close enough.

He doesn't smile when Burr draws the dirk from the handle of his umbrella; by the time Burr is pulling the end of the dirk out of Reynolds' bloodied chest, watching the other man attempting to press the flats of his trembling hands against the wound, Reynolds' expression has eased into slack-jawed horror.

Burr glances up, wanting to apologise to his Theo, hoping she hadn't seen it - only to come face to face with his Hamilton and Maria Reynolds.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now with the actual FIRST SECTION of the chapter as well as the end! 
> 
> (sorry, so sorry)

Maria had imagined James dead before in the past. Not in any particularly vested way; only, occasionally, she would find herself staring at him and wondering what life might be like if he was not in it any more. No details. Just a wistful yearning for something that seemed so inexplicable as to be impossible.

He's dead now, though.

It's not as satisfying as she had assumed it might be. It's not even much of a relief. He's sprawled on his back with his eyes gleaming wetly in the dim, shuttered moonlight and Maria has been frozen in quiet fear for so long her body feels stiff with the emotion.

She had lingered in the dappled shadows of the trees as James had approached Burr - "as a witness, nothing more," James had promised her with his usual careless manner - and she had stood and she had watched and only felt the slightest fluttering of nerves when the conversation hadn't gone the way James had talked it through with her.

They didn't know, they had only suspected - about the convenient deaths, about the strange timings and the manic paranoia gleaming in Hamilton's eyes. She had waited and watched as she had been told and then, for a split second, her attention had been distracted. Footsteps behind her. Soft, careful, as if they were well used to treading on the ground; the footsteps of a professional.

So she had anticipated Hamilton before his fingers had touched the inside of her elbow, so as not to frighten her. He had hissed at her to be quiet, straining to hear the conversation between James and Burr in the distance, and she had bit down hard on the inside of her cheek in an effort to comply with his orders - it had almost worked, until the dirk in the umbrella had been revealed.

The next few moments are a blur of movement, of gaping horror and a ringing in her ears that didn't quieten when the movement stopped. And James is dead, her husband is dead, and for all the awful ways he had treated her, he had been her protection: her only protection from the two men now angrily and loudly conversing away from her.

Be clever she tells herself, fighting through the panic in order to regulate her breathing. Listen to what they're saying and remember it. For the future. You still have a future.

But it's difficult to concentrate when James is right there by her feet, still warm, gaping up at her as if she had driven the blade in herself. His eyes seem to follow her as she deliberately moves away from him and the weight of his empty stare settles heavily on her shoulders as she turns towards Hamilton and Burr, hears snatches of half-hysterical conversation (-"What are you doing? I don't understand - does he know?" - "He was threatening me, me and Theo, I had to-" - "Theo? I don't-"-)

Neither man seems to remember she is there, an unsurprising turn of events that Maria has become more than accustomed to over the course of the past few years. And, as if every past experience has been building up to this moment, Maria uses the respite not to flee, but to formulate a plan.

There's the letter, back in James' office, sealed and printed and ready to be sent at a moment's notice-

There's Hamilton, the President, a widower, unattached in every legal sense of the word-

Maria supposes they have at least one thing in common now.

There is a lull in the frantic, private conversation Hamilton and Burr had been having with each other. Burr looks faintly unhinged, neat spots of blood on his coat; Hamilton is breathing heavily. He can see her, even if Burr doesn't seem to have recognised her presence, and he steps towards her, hand outstretched as if to detain her. Or to appeal for help.

"Mrs Reynolds, please, just don't scream-"

"I'm not going to scream," Maria says, and is pleasantly surprised by how steady her voice is, even if her hands are clenched in the material of her dress, stiff and unyielding. "If I were going to scream, I would've done it when it happened."

It happened. The undignified ending of a life. Her husband's life.

"And it's Lewis. Maria Lewis," she adds softly, sparing James the most fleeting of guilty glances before she steels herself and looks away again. There's no time for even the faintest remnants of misplaced sentimentality; not yet.

"Fine, Mrs - Miss Lewis," Hamilton corrects himself hurriedly, looking agitated, continuing to twitch his gaze back to Burr with increasing speed, as if the other man might take off if he glances away for too long. She can't see the umbrella any more. She supposes it must be on the floor. "I understand this must be a shock-"

"I know about President Washington," Maria says boldly, stepping towards Hamilton with a youthful assertiveness. There's no time for delicacy, or subtlety - and looking at the two men, she isn't sure either of them would respond well to the attempt. "And I think you've killed more than just him and James. We have proof."

The last statement is tacked on impulsively, but she is rewarded by Hamilton looking suddenly anguished; Burr jerking in surprise.

"Maria-" Hamilton starts again weakly. Maria can't understand the expression on his face: there's horror, and fear, but there also seems to be a flickering relief muddying the expression. A slight relaxation in his shoulders. He's bluffing she tells herself, and her resolve strengthens.

"I have a letter being sent to James Monroe as we speak," she says decisively, finally unclenching her hands from the skirts of her dress, tentatively flexing her fingers. "With our suspicions about President Washington. With the proof. So you can't - you can't kill me," she adds hurriedly, her voice wavering only very slightly before she manages to restrain it.

"We would never-" Burr says, the first thing he has said since he had murdered James in front of her - when Maria glances at him, he seems inexplicably shaken by her accusation, as if the thought is abhorrent. They're both insane she thinks, and the thought is so awful as to be strangely funny. I'm placing my life in the hands of two madmen.

Even James had been more reliable than them.

"I want something in return for me stopping the information in that letter from becoming public," she says, talking over Burr. She is looking very steadily at Hamilton. "And for keeping quiet about tonight."

Hamilton mulls over this suggestion for a few seconds. Maria counts her heartbeats, and tries not to think about what she will do if he inexplicably refuses her. She's never been refused before - but this means more than anything else she's ever dared.

"What do you want?" he asks finally, meeting her gaze evenly. Maria's heart lurches in her chest and she's angry at the instinctive betrayal.

"I want to be First Lady." The words sound insane and yet nothing has ever sounded more natural than the way the statement fits in her mouth. "I want you to marry me."

"No," Burr says, involuntary, too sharp.

"Yes," Hamilton says at the same time, looking at her with a strange hunger in his gaze. As if he is seeing her for the first time.

 

* * *

  

There is confetti stuck to the floor. Its greyish white and trodden into the ground and Burr continues to stare at it even if he doesn't know why. It's easier than thinking, he supposes.

Everything about Hamilton's marriage to Maria Reynolds - Maria Lewis, Maria Hamilton, whichever name she has chosen to wear that day - fills him with some inexplicable dread. The realisation that Hamilton had cast him aside as easily as he had, agreeing to marry Maria without even a glance back at Burr, settles uncomfortably in his stomach and lingers, day after day after day, until finally it had happened. They had married, said their vows to one another, and Burr had stood in the corner easing his weight from one foot to the other and tried to explain away the sadness pressing against his chest.

Everything he had done, it had all been for Hamilton. And now in the dark Theo Jr looks at him so sadly, as if he has let her down again, and every time he reaches out for her she turns away. Sometimes he will wake suddenly in the night and she will still be there, and he is so relieved he hasn't been dreaming his eyes become inexplicably wet. Other times she is gone, only a phantom pain lingering in the room, but Hamilton is still there beside him, waking at the same time as Burr as if they are connected.

Sometimes he wakes alone, as he had this morning. Blissfully unaware of everything that had happened in the past few months for at least a minute, until reality had slowly seeped through the cracks once again. Washington. Adams. Laurens. Philip. Reynolds. The soldier whose name he has forgotten if he ever knew it. And his two Theodosias, untouched by his own hands yet just as melancholy, just as distant.

He grinds the confetti with the heel of his shoe, a sour taste in his mouth as he glances around the room. People are talking and laughing as if they cannot sense the death lingering in the air, the red-hot secret pressed to Maria's chest, the spiking panic clawing Burr's throat. He had gambled everything on the surety of Hamilton's affections, on the strength of their combined genius, and now, and now, and now-

No-one approaches him. Perhaps they can see a change in his demeanour; perhaps they all know his horrible secret and pity him too much to acknowledge his guilt. _He has nothing now_ he is sure they must be whispering, _not after the President rejected him so rudely, and his daughter continues to skirt around him in favour of talking to him..._

That's fine. Burr glances down at his hands and tries to stop them from trembling but it's a concerted effort and goes to waste. Fuck Hamilton, anyway. Burr has never needed him. The lie sticks painfully in his chest but he continues to resolutely repeat it to himself, an echoing litany bouncing around the inside of his skull as he works up the nerves to approach the happy couple.

"Congratulations," he manages, his voice low, the words too quick out of his mouth as he reaches Hamilton, all courtesies rudely shoved aside. He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet and exhales, a shudder that goes all the way through his body.

"That's very kind of you, Mr Burr," Maria says with a sleek nod of her head, but Hamilton continues to stare at him oddly, the intensity of his focus disconcerting.

_Is he wondering why I'm still here?_ Burr wonders desperately. _Is he angry I didn't refer to him as President?_ He wouldn't put either past Hamilton any more. He might still crave the comfort Hamilton's warm presence in his bed offers him, as tainted as the comfort is, but he won't demean himself any further for the other man. He has to set a good example for Theo Jr, after all.

"Have another drink Burr, you look like you need one," Hamilton says finally, his voice overly pronounced, jovial, a performance for the crowds. But his eyes flash a warning as he studies Burr - once upon a time, Burr might have mistaken it for concern.

"Your generosity is noted," Burr grinds out, turning away from Hamilton in one fluid motion, drowning out the rest of his thoughts with the very insistent repetition of _I hate him I hate him I hate him._

* * *

 

The morning after getting married to Maria Lewis, Hamilton wakes up in bed next to Aaron Burr. Maria is in the guest room he and Burr slept in the night when everything with Washington—happened.

When Hamilton killed him.

Hamilton jumps out of bed, somehow managing not to disturb Burr. Apparently Burr never got into the pre-six am rising, but at least it means Hamilton is able to get things done easier. Burr constantly worries about what Hamilton is doing, how he is screwing up—and then it was Burr who killed Reynolds and led to Maria seeing.

Hamilton fixed it by marrying her. The least Burr could do would be to act civil about it. Yes, Burr cares about what Hamilton _does_. But he made it perfectly clear after his disinterest yesterday just how much he little he actually cares about Hamilton. Burr called him generous, looked at him with a dispassionate smile, like a dagger sliding into his gut. As if there was never between them and never had been. As if it was all a business transaction suitably completed.

They went into this as a couple and now they are sleeping in the same bed, but Hamilton has acquired a second wife, and Burr has turned on his side so he doesn’t have to see Hamilton as he sleeps. Burr tugs the covers closer to his chest and froze when Hamilton tried to lean into him in the night. _Fuck you_ , Hamilton wanted to spit. _Is this it?_ he wanted to ask. _Is this what you wanted when you set us down this road?_

They are getting away with murder and becoming the most powerful men in the country in the wake of the bodies they leave behind. But what does it matter anymore?

_What’s done is done perhaps_ , he wonders.

The only thing they have gained is the Presidency, and if Maria ruins it then they have nothing. They cannot let it slip from their fingers. Being married to Maria is the final nail in the coffin—a reminder that not only has he killed, but he has truly lost everything.

Washington, Laurens, _Philip._

The prophecy said that only one who loved him could kill him. And yesterday the one man who he thought might harbour some affection for him let Hamilton swear himself to another woman without batting an eye. Burr is not anything to worry about anymore.

The Presidency is still Hamilton’s, even if Burr is no longer his. He cannot afford to lose it. No matter the cost now.

Yesterday, Burr faltered when Maria confronted them, as if killing her were the most preposterous idea in the world even as her husband’s body lay prone at their feet. It is a small reminder but comes at a crucial time, reminding him that his once lover has morals that Hamilton does—there is a difference between men and women in Burr’s minds for all his talk of equality.

Power can be easily won and lost: Hamilton and Burr have shown that. And at the wedding their hold on the country’s power was challenged. They were slighted by missing guests: for a cabinet member to miss the President’s wedding, and not even send his wife or children, who were in their own home and not occupied in the slightest, was a snub of the most unacceptable nature.

Thomas Jefferson and Abigail Adams left the night of the Anti-Slavery Bill and never returned. Not even for the wedding. Thomas Jefferson is supposedly on his way to France for diplomatic reasons—Hamilton sent him away as quickly as propriety and his newfound power would allow. But his wife is still home. At Monticello. Jefferson has bragged about it enough for Hamilton to know enough about it to find it, to gain access... Hamilton will show Jefferson just a taste perhaps of how it feels to throw away everything on a shot that doesn’t even meet its intended target. To lose everyone in the process of gaining power.

Without a backwards glance, Hamilton gathers his clothes and leaves their shared bedroom, glancing briefly at the faded scarlet stain on the floor – the room where the first murder happened. Washington had never seen it coming.

Neither would poor Martha Jefferson.

 

* * *

  

Eliza must want him dead after he let Philip die. If he is ever to see her again – and that is unlikely, as he is surely heading in the other direction to her now upon the end of his earthly career – she will no longer love him.

For all of his posturing and remembrance of his childhood, it has been some time since he has been truly alone. Unloved. What a terrifyingly fallen thought. Isn’t that how the devil came to fall from grace—for Lucifer saw himself as unloved...?

Hamilton laughs, and his horse neighs, almost put out, underneath him. Surely no one can have tripped so far down the road to hell with such neutral intentions. Well, perhaps Burr. Maybe they will be honoured down there for their poisonous pursuits. Better to reign in hell with Burr than serve in Heaven with Washington.

Perhaps Thomas Jefferson himself will be there to greet them—Hamilton has been riding down the road to the front of the Monticello estate for a while and has seen enough to make him sick.

The Emancipation Bill may have passed through congress, but it seems not all Virginians have learned that yet. Well, Hamilton has always been willing to offer a lesson to those in need of erudition. The conditions are not kind and Hamilton’s mind spins up possibilities of worse—images of the ships back in Nevis, of the stories. By the time he dismounts, Hamilton is seething. His hand is on his dagger as he knocks on the door.

He knocks again. And then a third time—

—he takes a run up, pushes his shoulder against it and busts it open.

“So sorry for the intrusion,” he shouts, uncaring of who may hear. Let them hear. Let them come running. He needs to find Mrs Jefferson. His eyes slide down the foyer and see the small dainty shoes lined next to the boots and heels. He’ll have to find the children too then, if he’s going to do this right. and “I’ll pay for the door.”

_Philip._

Fortunately, Jefferson only has two daughters now, otherwise it may have been too hard to bear. No one has emerged and it is unlikely the house is empty or that his arrival has gone unnoticed.

“Your President’s paying a house visit, show him the proper courtesy!”

Nothing. He draws the dagger out and swings it round so his grip on the hilt is firm and the edge is pointed away from him. Upstairs, a window is open, a mesh curtain is swaying in the cool breeze and he is about to head up the winding stairs when there is a noise from the room to his right—the parlour perhaps? A slight sorrowful sound, pre-empting the upcoming massacre.

As good a place to do this as any. No need to crush all traditions and etiquette—might as well let the lady meet her death in sophistication. The strings continue their song and Hamilton edges forwards.

There’s someone in the room. Finally. He steps inside. No need to close the door behind him. Let anyone else who is home hear, perhaps it will make them run.

She’s in the wheeled chair, rocking slightly left then right but never enough for Hamilton to see her pale face. The poor woman must be terrified. He will make it quick—he owes her that. Of course, she is complicit in Monticello—but she is not her husband.

Even as he approaches, still she faces away from him out towards the window, looking out across the plantation. She has a billowing black cloak on—all he can see spread across the arms of the chair. And the edge of the violin bow as it extends back and forth, drawing life slowly out of the dead wood of the instrument in some horrible charade of life and death mirroring Hamilton’s own actions.

Hamilton wraps his own cloak further around him, hoping the black will absorb any red that flows too close to him. He would rather not lose another shirt to this business. It should be a clean cut though, a stab not a slash—quicker for the woman and cleaner for his clothes.

The violin stops.

The chair swivels around and the smirking face that meets Hamilton’s is not the woman he expected.

“Bet you thought you’d see the last of me,” Thomas Jefferson says, pulling his gun out of his lap. “Now how about we have a little conversation. I’m sure there’s plenty y’all dying to tell me.”

**Author's Note:**

> This may be crack or it may be extremely serious.
> 
> We're [abit-notgood](http://abit-notgood.tumblr.com/) and [ramsay--bolton](http://ramsay--bolton.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you want to chat/rant/blame us.


End file.
